Can I Play With Madness
by bambers2
Summary: I wanted to be the one to release his Shadow. But more than anything I wanted to see the fear in his eyes when I took the one thing from him that would rip his heart and soul to shreds – and then perhaps I would be merciful . . . but I doubt it.
1. Chapter 1

So here's the deal, I have been contemplating Whispers In the Dark for quite a while now, wanting to complete it yet needing to understand Charlie better...so, to move toward the ending, I needed to go back to the beginning. I'll probably regret posting this, but life is too short to worry about regrets. This story is mostly from Charlie's pov, and with that comes the knowledge that it will be a very dark story. thanks for reading, bambers;)

_Chapter One_

If there's one thing I've learned in my life, it's that people will stop talking in a heartbeat to hear the grisly details of a truly gruesome murder scene. It's human nature – sick and as twisted as all hell, but still human nature none the less. Like flies drawn to a pile of crap, people are that predictable. I, on the other hand, prefer the unpredictable . . . that's what really gets me where I live. That's where my grisly fantasies reside.

They don't see me, it's too dark in the auditorium and they're too drawn in by the pictures flashing across the screen behind my back. Decapitations. Brutally torn and mangled body parts. Blood splattered across the walls and pooling on the floor. It's enough to make the strongest person lose his stomach, and as I quietly watch with a sympathetic smile, many of them do.

The expansive room was cast into dead silence as lights came on, and a squirrelly looking man, who was graying at the temples, took center stage at the podium. His last name was Clarkson or maybe it was Larkson, not sure which it was as I wasn't really listening. But I was watching him – studying the twitch in the corner of his right eye. Watching the way he couldn't hold eye contact, and the way his eyes rose and looked off to the right when he fished for a response to a question posed to him. He was a liar, not a very good one, but a liar none the less.

"And now I would like to introduce a good friend of mine," squirrelly man said, extending an arm in my direction, "Doctor Thomas Charles Porter."

I was right – he was a pathetic liar . . . predictable, boring and not even worthy of my time, but I still managed to smile disarmingly at him as he shook my hand. I turned my regard to the audience, I was good at this. A master at the game – the consummate liar. Never keep your sights on one person overly long, but make sure to make eye contact, holding it just long enough so they believe you have nothing to hide. People are gullible at best, and will always believe even the most outlandish lies if you can boldly meet their inquisitive gaze without flinching.

"Thank you, Professor," I said, shaking his hand and then wiped my hand on my suit coat. Clearing my throat, I focused my attention on the audience. "As he said, my name's Thomas Porter and I work as a criminal profiler for the FBI." Hitching a thumb back over my shoulder, I chuckled to lessen the tension in the room caused by the slide show I had put together for my lecture. "I really probably should have waited to show the slides until I was finished expounding on how rewarding my job really is. I'll have to remember that for the next time."

Nervous laughter filtered through the room as several students shuffled uneasily in their seats. A young man in the third row caught my attention, and my smile faltered for the briefest of moments. There was nothing remarkable about his appearance, nothing that would make him stand out in the crowd. His face was impassive as he studied his peers, but the subtle interest in his gray eyes couldn't be denied.

"I'm not going to bore you with the statistics or try to convince you that they're a bunch of crap, you have your text books for that, but I would like everyone in this room to consider the vast amount of murders and missing persons reports that go unsolved yearly." I was on auto-pilot now, I had given this exact speech so many times in the past that I didn't even think about it anymore. Now I was free to give my full attention to learning everything I could about anyone who captured my attention.

"Unfortunately, as a criminal profiler, I can only study the picture after the fact. From the first murder scene to the subsequent ones that follow, it's my job to determine a pattern."

In the fifth row, a petite girl sunk down in her seat. Although she feigned interest in the lecture, she twirled her long, blond hair around her finger, and bit wistfully at her lower lip. Every now and again, her gaze would shift to a dark-haired boy in the front row. I glanced at the boy, sizing him up, and had to hide my sudden humor. For all his undeniable appeal to the opposite sex, he was looking for a little bump and grind action from the sandy-haired man sitting beside him. Unrequited love; the one thing that could twist a person and make a murderer out of even the most upstanding of citizens.

Only ten minutes into my lecture, I had completely lost interest, but still managed to ramble on for well over forty minutes, giving my best stock answers to any questions posed. "In conclusion, I would like to thank the professor for asking me here today to speak on behalf of the FBI Criminology Department. It's my hope that I have somehow enlightened you as to how the mind of a serial killer works. I also hope that I've impressed upon you the knowledge that people have very intricate, sometimes devious minds. A serial killer could be right in the same room as you are, and you might never even know it until it's too late." The comment was a small flaunt on my part, but with a narrowing of my brows and a worried frown, I played it off as a concerned warning.

The professor tried to catch my attention as I swiftly strode from the stage, and he continued to follow as I made for the back exit. Some people just never seem to know when they should turn and run the other way, and professor dumb-ass couldn't have picked the worst possible moment to test his luck. He reached me as I grasped the door handle, and placed a hand on my shoulder to stop me from leaving. It was a mistake on his part. One I would let go for now, but not one I would forget.

"Doctor Porter, we're having a small reception at Kerrington Hall, and I thought you would be attending to greet the students and answer any personal questions they might have."

"Well, you apparently thought wrong, Professor Larkson."

"Clarkson," he quickly amended, giving me a look that was clearly meant to make me feel embarrassed for having forgotten his name. I don't embarrass that easily.

"Unfortunately, I've made other plans for the evening, but I do thank you for inviting me." The smile I gave him now was genuine as I recalled the bearded man 'd noticed two days prior. He had two younger boys with him; the older of the two looked to be about fifteen or sixteen, and the younger was probably about no more than twelve. The bearded man with dark, riveting eyes had watched the two younger ones with such fierce protectiveness that I couldn't help but be thoroughly intrigued.

Within an hour's time, I had run his license plate, found out his name, and had a complete background check on him. John Winchester. Ex-marine. Somehow that didn't really surprise me all that much, but did make the prospect of figuring out what made him tick all the more appealing.

His wife had died in a house fire, tragic, but not entirely remarkable. He had been left to care for his two sons; Dean, who had been four at the time of the fire, and Sam, who had been six months old. From what I could gather, he sold his home, worked odd jobs as a mechanic for a while, and then had fallen off the grid. Luckily for me, it seemed as if his boys were very accident prone, and I ran across numerous hospital and social services records. A flutter of anticipation surged in my heart.

If I had judged John correctly from my brief encounter, and there was no doubt in my mind that I had, he'd never laid a finger on either of his children. Yet, the extensive hospital reports didn't lie – someone was abusing both boys. But if it wasn't John who had hurt them, he obviously knew who had done it, and maybe that's what had kept him on the run.

The real cool thing about my job is all the little wire-tapping, listening and tracking devices, not to mention the miniature surveillance cameras I can get my hands on within a moment's notice. It was so easy, too damn easy, to break into their motel room and bug it, that the idea of watching them lost some of its original appeal. But gut instinct goes a long way, and my shaken faith was quickly restored after I'd rummaged through their duffel bags.

What kind of man traveled around with a complete arsenal at his disposal? A man who was afraid of something, but what? My curiosity was piqued, yet for all my interest, John could've just as easily been a traveling gun salesman. I doubted it, but it was always a possibility. But it wasn't until I had spied the white trails of salt running along the floor in front of the door and subsequent ones I'd found edging the window sills, that I knew in my heart that he was the one. The one I couldn't let go. The one I needed to get to know a whole helluva lot better.

It was a rare mistake on my part, but in those moments of thinking about John, I'd somehow managed to let Professor Clarkson see more in my eyes than I'd intended. Look too long into the eyes of any man, and there's a chance you'll find the monsters that lurk in the deepest niches of his mind. And by the way his breathing rapidly increased as he took a sudden backward step, I was certain he was afraid of what he saw.

With practiced ease, I dispelled his well-warranted fears with a winsome smile. "I'm sorry, I was thinking about my mother. She's very ill," I said with an awkward shyness meant to gain his sympathy, and it worked like a charm. "She's just so fragile that I'm always afraid something might happen to her while I'm away." Fragile, a term to evoke in one's mind the idea that something is easily breakable, and her bones did snap like brittle twigs, so I guess the word fit perfectly. "I really have to be going, I'm meeting an old friend for dinner, and it would be rude to be late."

"Yes. Yes, I'm sorry I kept you," he said, sounding flustered and more than just a little embarrassed for assuming the worst of me. "I hope your mother feels better soon." He made a hasty retreat, which was probably for the best as I was starting to lose my patience and self-control.

He would've begged – would've bawled like a baby. I chuckled, comforting myself with the knowledge that I would have found it less than satisfying. For as cliché as it may have sounded, I had found a bigger fish to fry and refused to settle for an unappetizing guppy.

John Winchester was predictable only as far as where he would choose to take his boys to dinner. The three times I had followed him, he'd always picked some small out of the way diner, and always sat in the far back to have a complete view of his immediate surroundings. Until tonight, I had never gone inside, only taking the time to glance in the window before I settled back in my car to wait for him to exit the building.

The strange thing is that most people won't notice you in a small crowd, even if you happen to show up everywhere they happen to be at the time. They're too completely self-absorbed in their own little world, only concerned about the people they are trying to impress with their witty banter, to realize someone is watching them. John wasn't such a man. He took in everything, analyzed it, and determined if it was a threat to his sons or himself. His unguarded conversations with his sons when he thought no one else was listening attested to this, and I couldn't help but feel the slightest bit smug that I'd already outmaneuvered him when I'd bugged his room.

Sam was smart, inquisitive, and questioned his father's authority on more than one occasion since I'd started to listen in on their conversations. But from what I could gather, Dean was the peace keeper of the family, setting himself between his father and brother whenever the arguments became overly heated.

They'd spoken of the salt trails I'd seen in their room, and some thing John was supposedly there to hunt. He'd called it a Wendigo, and from research I'd discovered it was some sort of creature that at one time had been human. Apparently it had a taste for human flesh, and was nearly unstoppable in its quest to attain it. From all accounts it was said to be a myth, but John seemed so certain that it was real, I momentarily found myself wanting to follow him on his hunt. Not that I would, I had already determined what I really wanted. Still, there was a certain appeal to the idea of seeing how brutal John would be with a weapon.

I arrived at the diner a few minutes after they had already entered, and took a seat at the counter. A long mirror spanned the length behind the counter above the food pick up station, and I found that if I rested my chin on interlaced hands, I could glance up into it without giving away the fact that I was staring into the reflective glass at all.

As it had been the past few times I'd watched them eat dinner, both younger boys had their backs to the door while John kept watch for any signs of danger. Dean fidgeted restlessly in his seat, obviously uncomfortable with the feeling of vulnerability of having his back to the crowd in the restaurant. If his father lowered his head for a moment to take bite to eat, Dean would take up the slack, glancing over his shoulder to make certain no threat would catch them unaware. Biting pensively at my lower lip, I wondered if John was even aware of this odd little quirk his eldest son had developed or was he as oblivious to it as he was to his youngest son's thirst for answers.

"What can I get ya, hon?" asked a middle-aged waitress, startling me out of my thoughts. Her gum snapped in rapid fire succession as she stretched it through her teeth and popped each tiny bubble it created. If there was ever one thing that would ruffle my calm outward facade, it's the horse chewing of gum by irritatingly bored waitresses.

"Coffee, black." Keep it simple, that's a rule I've always followed. Even the ditsiest of waitresses will recall the details of a man when he's overly particular about the way his food is served.

"Anything else?" she said as she poured me a cup of steamy, hot liquid.

"No, just the check."

The moment she walked away, I returned my attention to observing the Winchesters. Although I couldn't see Sam's face in the mirror, the telltale slump of his shoulders and lowered head told me he was sulking about something.

There's a helluva lot you can tell about a person just by studying their body language. A subtle lift of a brow, the rigidness of his posture, a quiver of his hand, these all tell something about a person that they may not readily want you to know about themselves. But these can only tell you so much, and then you have to listen. I've always been a real good listener. Luckily for me, I'm also very good at planting bugs on people, and even luckier for me that Dean chose to wear the leather jacket I'd planted a listening device on when I'd broken into their motel room.

If anyone bothered to look close enough, they might have assumed I was wearing a hearing aide, which I guess is technically the truth as it helped me hear everything the Winchesters had to say. From a causal glance, they looked as if they were having a pleasant dinner, voices lowered as to not draw attention to themselves, yet their dinner was anything but pleasant. John tipped the meter on the anger scale. Sam, on the other hand was defiant and rebellious – maybe due to his age or maybe due to being shuffled around from town to town. Dean . . . well, he was trying to hold them both back from saying something that they would later regret – and the more I watched him the more fascinated I became.

"You promised, Dad," Sam said in a hushed tone, yet I could feel the venom behind his words. "You said we'd stay until the end of the school year, but just like every other promise you've ever made, this one was a lie, too."

"I didn't make any promises, Sam, I said we'd try, but we couldn't very well stay with the DSS breathing down our necks, could we?" John glanced up, looked around the diner to see if anyone was paying any particular attention to their heated exchange, and satisfied that no one was, he lowered his head again. "Hell, I'm surprised they even let me bring Dean home from the hospital."

Dean shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but only I seemed to notice how he'd grown uneasy with the present direction of their conversation. "It was only a couple of cracked ribs an' a few cuts . . . you shouldn't have brought me to the hospital."

"You were unconscious for longer than I was comfortable with," John replied, piquing my curiosity as to how long was too long to be unconscious for a Winchester. Most parents would've hightailed it to the hospital if their child was out cold for more than a few moments, but I had a feeling that this rule did not apply to them. "I knew I shouldn't have taken you both with me on that last hunt. It was way too dangerous, an' I knew you weren't ready."

Dean's shoulders drooped ever-so-slightly, not that John noticed, and even to my ears his fatherly concern sounded more like genuine disappointment. God, I wish I could've seen his face at that moment – wanting to see how hard he would struggle to act as if his father hadn't just cut deeply into his pride.

"I'm sorry, Dad," Dean mumbled the apology so low that if the listening device hadn't been planted on him, I probably wouldn't have heard it. "I should've been paying better attention."

"I know you were trying, Dean, but we can't afford any mistakes."

"It wasn't his fault, Dad," Sam was quick to defend, and moved closer to Dean as if forming a silent alliance against a mutual enemy. "I slipped an' he was just trying to protect me."

"No, Sammy," Dean said with a slow shake of his head. "Dad's right, I messed up, an' you could've gotten killed because of it."

There's no doubt in my mind that Sam told the truth, and from the inflection of Dean's tone, I could tell he was uncomfortable lying to his father. My eyes narrowed, trying to determine if there was any change in his posture as he lied, and noticed a slight rigidness in his back as if he were trying to restrain himself from blurting out the truth. I'm not sure why, but this puzzled me. He'd gotten away with it, his father believed that he'd made a mistake that could have caused Sam his life, so why was there a need to come clean on the matter? It wasn't that I didn't understand Dean's desire to appear strong in his father's eyes – it's human nature to want to emulate those traits a person admires in others, and from what I could gather, Dean had some seriously sick hero worshiping issues regarding his father. But for some damn reason his desire to protect Sam, even from their own father, far outranked his own personal wants or needs. For as much as Dean loved his little brother, Sam was his weakness – a weakness that could be exploited if I so chose.

Surprisingly, or maybe not surprising at all, some of the most brutal murders scenes I've attended in my career have been perpetrated by those who've had a fierce, undeniable love for the victim. They've been referred to as crimes of passion which I'd always found rather humorous when staring at the gory remains of some woman who'd been hacked apart by an ax because she'd slept with her husband's best friend. As I contemplated this, I began to wonder if Dean had any deep seeded resentment of his little brother – something I could play upon to tear them apart.

There had to be a darker side to Dean – something I was missing, and that bothered the hell out of me. Carl Jung, a famous Swiss psychiatrist once wrote, 'Everyone carries a Shadow, and the less it is embodied in the individual's conscious life, the blacker and denser it is', and I had no doubt that this even applied to the middle, peacekeeping Winchester.

Oddly, I'd never felt so connected to someone who'd caught my interest before, and the sudden surge of adrenaline that raged through my entire body in anticipation was fiercer and more deadly than any firestorm could ever hope to be. I wanted to be the one to release his Shadow. I wanted to push him until his mind snapped. But more than anything I wanted to see the fear in his eyes when I took the one thing from him that would rip his heart and soul to shreds – and then perhaps I would be merciful . . . but I doubt it.


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks for reading and for the really great reviews. bambers;)_

_Chapter Two_

When I was seven years old, I really wanted this remote control car. It was a sleek black color with neon green racing stripes, and ran on a hand held wireless remote. Evan Booker, the fat, runny-nosed kid who lived next door to me, had one and from the moment I saw it I knew I had to have one, too. My mother said she didn't have the money, but what she really should've said was that she'd wasted what little money she did have getting liquored up before my father got home from work.

But I wanted it. It was as simple as that, and it was also as simple as slipping into my parent's bedroom while she was passed out on the couch to steal the money my dad kept hidden in his sock drawer. As far as intelligence goes my old man scrapped the bottom of the barrel, and still came out empty-handed. However, for what he lacked in smarts, he'd made up for in spades with cruelty.

After discovering his money was missing, and finding me playing with my new car, he'd called me into the back shed. For as angry and big as he was, I couldn't bring myself to care that he was pissed off. That's when he began to explain how in medieval times, they would cut off the hand of a person caught stealing. I didn't even flinch when he slammed the knife down, severing my ring finger, and I realized two very important things that day. The first being that I liked pain – through it I found clarity and purpose. And the second, medieval torture was the ultimate in terrifying coolness.

When I got out of the hospital, the very first thing I did was beat the crap out of Evan and then smashed his stupid remote control car. If I couldn't have what I wanted then neither would he.

Later, before joining the FBI, I used my own special kind of skills and charm to retrieve my hospital records, and erased any mention of the surgery to reattach my finger. That's the kind of information that could be very damning if it should ever come to light, and I am far too smart to get caught. Now the faint scar that rings my finger is carefully concealed beneath a thick silver band that I never remove.

As I lay in bed, two doors down from the Winchesters, listening and watching them through a monitor as they prepared for John's hunting trip, I began to wonder how much the eldest Winchester was like my own father. Did Dean's apparent hero worship of him really stem from some deep rooted fear? On several occasions, I'd heard him refer to his father as 'sir' which seemed sorely out of place coming from a teen when speaking to a man who drank Jack Daniel's rather liberally. Perhaps John was so caught up in remembering his military days that he believed he still deserved to be addressed as if he was someone of importance.

And as I continued to analyze his every movement, I realized that he really did believe he was fighting some imaginary war against evil. He was so caught up in his own monsters versus the Winchesters little world that he'd actually made his two sons believe in his delusions as well. And if that was true, then maybe John did hurt his children like all the hospitals and the DSS had reported. Giving credit where credit is due, I applauded John for creating his own little fictional demons so well that Dean really seemed to believe that a werewolf had cracked his ribs and had left him unconscious.

Yet for as good as I am at reading people, and I'm really frighteningly good at it, I couldn't pick up a vibe from John that would make me believe he would intentionally hurt his sons. Well, not physically anyway. For as weird as it may have sounded, even through my monitor, I could feel Dean's emotional pain as it rolled off of him in waves. My gut clenched in tight knots – not my normal reaction to witnessing someone else's well-concealed pain, and it made me all the more determined to find out what made him tick.

"How long you gonna be gone?" Dean asked his father, slumping down on the bed beside Sam. He busied himself with sharpening one of the numerous knives they owned, but I could tell his mind was elsewhere. He wanted to go with his father. With every vicious swipe of his blade across the sharpening stone, he punctuated his anger at the thought of staying at the motel, and resented the hell out of John for believing he was good for nothing more than babysitting his little brother.

"I'm gonna meet up with Bobby and Pastor Jim tonight," John uttered with a heavy sigh. "I shouldn't be gone for more than a week . . . two at the most."

I smiled hearing this. A week's a helluva long time . . . more than enough time. The only thing I needed to figure out was how I was going to gain Dean's trust. I doubted that he trusted easily, but then again, I'd never run across anyone I couldn't completely disarm with just a few words using the right inflection of tone. And then Sam would mysteriously disappear, and instead of going to his father, he would turn to me, and that's when the fun would begin.

"Keep a good eye on your brother, Dean, an' stick close to the motel," John warned, snatching his duffel off the bed before heading toward the door.

Resentment furrowed Dean's brow at the reminder, as if he would somehow forget that babysitting was the only thing he was useful for in the eyes of his father. "I've already told you three times, I wouldn't take my eyes off of him . . . do you want it written in blood? If so jus' give me a knife and a piece of paper, an' I'll have it."

Sam's head shot up from the book he was studying, and he glared at John through his shaggy bangs. "I'm thirteen, Dad, I don't need Dean watching me like I'm some freakin' baby."

Ignoring Dean's comment, John addressed Sam. "I'm not gonna argue with you about this, Sammy. Do what your brother says, and stay inside the motel room as much as possible. Understand me?" His tone turned authoritative, making it very clear that it was an order, and he expected that neither one of the boys to disobey.

"Yes, sir," they both answered simultaneously, and I could hear the scarcely concealed anger resonating from both their tones.

Whether John didn't hear it or chose to ignore it, I wasn't sure, but it made me wonder all the more about his character. I'm not ashamed to say that at the moment, I was torn between wanting to learn more about John and trying to discover why I felt so damn connected to Dean. The eldest Winchester was fascinating with all his well-conceived delusions and feelings that he was somehow saving the world, and I was hard-pressed to not get out of my bed and follow him. Of course there would always be afterwards – I could take up my interest in him once he'd learned his failure as a father had resulted in Dean and Sam's disappearance, and maybe he would believe that they had run away. It was a very real possibility from everything I'd witnessed, and that brought a smile to my face.

Once John had left, the two remaining Winchesters fell into a comfortable pattern that quite truthfully bored the hell out of me. For the life of me, I couldn't understand how Dean wouldn't be tearing his hair out at the boredom that was Sam Winchester. Sam read – he read a lot. It was all I could do not to grab a knife, rush over there, and kill the youngest Winchester just to put Dean out of his misery. And Dean was suffering, I could feel it with every fiber of my being. Part of me reveled in his agony, feeling a euphoric high as his self-doubts and fears about himself crashed down upon him with tidal force, but an even more acute part of myself felt it like a blade twisting in my gut.

I didn't like the feeling – didn't like the pressure building behind my eyes . . . didn't like the momentary loss of myself in the midst of his emotional turmoil. Angrily, I flipped off the monitor, and pushed myself to my feet. I don't make mistakes. I only get caught up in other's lives to the extent that it suits my purposes, and this was completely unacceptable.

I plan things. I plan them meticulously to the very last minute detail. I study all the angles and what ifs over and over again until I've worked through them to make sure I don't make any crucial mistakes. But maybe Dean was a mistake? It wasn't that I didn't think I could take everything from him if I wanted to, that would be only too easy. No, it wasn't that at all. More like a blood lust – I knew once I began, I'd never want to see his suffering come to an end, yet it would come all too quickly, and that just felt way too unsatisfying for my liking.

Frustration burned at the very core of my brain as I paced the expanse of my room. Eighteen steps from window to wall, and eighteen carefully measured steps back. I counted them off – an odd habit perhaps, but it helped me to think and clarify things in my mind. As I ticked off the passing of each step, I visualized how I would strike up a conversation with Dean and how I would lure him in. He was a hunter like his father, I'd gathered this much from his family's conversations, but how could I use this to my advantage?

He was angry, I could sense it in his posture, his grunted responses when John barked out orders that he was meant to follow without question. His movements were as measured as mine – careful. He despised making mistakes, and I liked that about him. It meant he would suffer more when he realized I was worse than the things that went bump in the night. Dean would have probably made some sarcastic comment about that comparison, I'm sure of it.

When his father wasn't around, he let his guard down, however slightly, and allowed Sam in. Yet he still held himself at a distance – protecting himself, and I found myself wondering why. Maybe it was fear. That would make sense. He felt responsible for Sam, that much was blatantly obvious. If they were walking together, he would instinctively pace himself to be a step or two ahead of the youngest Winchester. I gathered that he did this to act as a human shield for Sam if some unknown danger happened to cross their path. He would then take numerous sidelong glances in his little brother's direction to make sure he was still there – still safe. It bit of an overkill if you asked me, but it made him all the more fascinating to study.

I wondered if Sam ever felt smothered in the slightest by the sheer magnitude of his older brother's protective nature, or maybe it was so natural to him that he never even gave it the slightest thought. I've noticed there's a certain amount of selfishness to Sam's behavior. He uses these certain looks to get his way with Dean, and that bugs the hell out of me. I imagined my knife twisting in his gut every time he uses this ploy to get his way, just as I'm sure Dean feels his stomach clench with guilt if forced to deny his little brother anything he wants.

These thoughts plagued my mind into the next morning, and I found myself unusually eager to find out if my assumptions about the brothers were corrected. I forced myself to wait until they went to lunch at a nearby diner. People don't mill around for any length of time over breakfast, unless they're old and have no where better to be at any given moment.

I waited until they had been in the diner for a while, searching for the perfect opportunity to introduce myself into their lives. It didn't take long for Sam to locate the video game machines, and even less time for him to give Dean the look. I've always hated people who could manipulate others with a few rightly chosen words or a simple glance. It cheapened Dean in my eyes. He was too weak to say no, and too pathetic to realize he had just been played by his little brother.

Disheartened now by the prospect of our encounter, I consciously redoubled my efforts to find some redeeming quality in his character. He was only a prize if he his strengths outnumbered his weaknesses, and for a moment I found myself once again wishing I'd followed John instead.

Dean sat alone at the counter, and with Sam content to play video games until his money ran out, I knew I had time. The seat on the right hand side of him was free, so I took a seat and placed my briefcase on the counter. Within a moment, a waitress came over, and noticing the container of creamer was on the counter next to Dean on the left hand side, I ordered coffee.

You have to find opportunities wherever possible when trying to strike up a conversation with a person who guards themselves like Dean does. Luckily for me there was a television on a shelf overhead. The news was on and nothing gets people talking like a good grisly murder. So without even trying, I already had two topics of conversation to make small talk about with him. A smile slid across my features as the waitress set my coffee in front of me, and I quickly ordered a ham sandwich. Like I said, no complicated orders. She wrote down my order as if it were that hard to remember and sauntered back to the counter. And now was my time – the moment, I'd been waiting for since I'd first seen the Winchesters.

"Excuse me," I said in a velvety smooth voice, making sure to keep my tone level and what I like to think of as 'safe'. I think people automatically assume that murderers should have harsh, gravelly voices. It's like saying that all truck drivers are men or only women bake cakes. Most people also probably assume that there would be some tell – something that would give a serial killer away if he were sitting right next to you in a crowded diner. I really don't think Dean noticed anything suspicious or overtly odd about me, so I'm guessing the answer to that is no as well. "Would you mind passing me the creamer?"

"Sure thing." He reached over, grabbed it and handed it to me. His voice was richer and a little deeper than I'd imagined. Audio distortion can really be a bitch sometimes.

When he's shifted in his seat to hand me the container, I'd noticed two things. The silver band on his ring finger and a strange amulet he wore around his neck. I wanted the ring. It wasn't anything special, nothing worth stealing, but it belong to him, and if something belonged solely to him it had to hold some sort of personal value. From what I had gathered, he wasn't the type of person who collected things. His clothes looked to be hand-me-downs from John or perhaps items he had bought at the Salvation Army store. So the ring had to be special to him.

"Thanks."

"Not a problem," he replied with a grin. His smile was guarded, but genuine. With the brief exchange at an end, he went back to watching the news and keeping an eye on Sam, and I was left to consider in what way I wanted to extract his ring from his finger. Maybe I would just take his finger. It would save me the problem of trying to pry it off of him once he was dead.

Within a few moments, the waitress returned with my sandwich, asked if I needed anything else, and when I said no, she returned her attention to flirting with fry cook. As I took a bite of the bland sandwich, I gazed at the television screen, trying to appear as if I were lost in thought. I was anything but lost in thought – I was planning, already thinking ahead to our next encounter. Always stay one step ahead of your adversary, I'd imagine Dean would think this a very smart move on my part.

With my head lowered, and out of corner of my eye, I watched as his back stiffened at the report of a local missing person. His hand tightened around his cup of coffee as he tilted his head to look once more at Sam.

I glanced up at the screen and saw a pair of familiar gray eyes. The details of the disappearance weren't important, I'd already knew what had happened to the young college student who had studied me a little too closely for my liking.

"I'll never understand people," I muttered to myself, but made sure it was loud enough for Dean to hear.

"Yeah, people are all kinds of nuts," he agreed with a subtle nod of his head.

Taking his cue, I struck up a conversation. "An' the really sad thing is that they'll probably find this poor kid dead somewhere with his head lobbed off." Heaving a heavy sigh, I shook my head in disgust as I gave him the exact details of how police would find the body if they were so lucky. Unfortunately for Alexander Franklin's family, the chances that his body would ever be discovered were extremely slim. "Or in a ditch on the side of the road somewhere."

"You're probably right." Dean glanced over his shoulder at the entrance, and then his gaze strayed back to Sam. His posture was rigid, eyes alert for any signs of danger, but I sensed that he didn't see me as a threat to himself or his little brother or he would have hightailed it out of there as quickly as he possibly could.

"Makes me glad I decided not to become a police officer . . . well, that an' the fact that I can't stomach the sight off blood." I chuckled awkwardly, feigning embarrassment at the thought of revealing something so personal about myself to a complete stranger. Of course, Alexander bled a lot – cutting off a man's head usually means that is a forgone conclusion. "But I guess I like my job . . . not the whole selling encyclopedias part of it, that sucks, but the traveling around. I'm not real big on staying in one place overly long."

"You sell encyclopedias?" He chuckled, looking me up and down as if sizing me up, and from his relaxed expression, I determined that he still saw me as not a threat. "An' here I thought my life sucked."

"It's not all bad, I have a good dental plan, an' it keeps me away from my nagging wife." I grinned as I lifted my coffee cup to my lips and took a long sip of the steamy liquid. "Here's a tip for ya, kid, never get married straight out of high school, you'll regret it by the time the ink dries on the marriage license." Something told me that Dean wasn't the marrying type of guy. His whole life was wrapped up so tightly in his father's delusions that he would've someday died old and all alone if I hadn't come into his life.

"I'm never gonna get married, so I don't see that being a problem." Although he smiled, it didn't quite reach the depths of his clear green eyes, and I was forced to reconsider my previous assessment. As he lowered his head to take a bite of his burger, I stole a glance at Sam, and it struck me then that even if he didn't want to get married, he did want to have kids of his own someday.

"Hey, ya never know, you might find some sweet girl who'll sweep you right off your feet, an' the next thing you know, you'll be married with the first of three kids on the way." He feigned a look of horror at the thought, and I chuckled. "All I'm sayin' is that it could happen. Just look at me." I gestured to my rumpled three piece suit and tie, and grimaced. "Once I was out of high school, I'd planned on buying this mint black '69 Chevelle I had my eye on for some time. It had black leather interior, and was completely restored by this guy who really knew what he was doing. Damn, I loved that car. Nothing like a classic car, but my wife said it was a gas guzzler so we bought a sedan," I scrunched my nose in distaste, and noticed how Dean's eyes lit up at the topic of classic cars. Naturally I knew he would latch onto this topic as I had watched him working on the Impala his father drove. "Another tip for ya, no matter how much the guy at the dealership tells you that a small compact car will save you on gas, never buy one. Your coolness factor will drop to like near non-existent."

"Oh, that's so not gonna happen," Dean replied with a cocky smile, easing back in his seat. "My dad's gonna give me his '67 Chevy Impala as soon as he gets another vehicle. She's cherry sweet, an' man you should hear her engine purr."

"You're kidding me, right?" I raised my tone to match his enthusiasm, not that I cared one bit about cars, but he liked them so I'd studied them. "When my old man was alive he wouldn't even let me touch his car. Course he was a my way or the highway type of guy, an' God help ya if you didn't do things just exactly as he said." Again I hesitated not wanting to seem to eager to divulge intimate details of my life that I knew would coincide with aspects of Dean's life. "He could be a real sonuvabitch if he wanted to be." Chuckling, I took on a brief faraway look as if remembering my father, and then furrowed my brows as if I found the memories distasteful.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't be talkin' your ear off," I muttered with an awkward smile, sensing his sudden change of posture. I'd struck a raw nerve within him just as I had intended to do, but I didn't wanted to push too hard too fast. I've learned that for some reason, people tend to gravitate toward others who have more screwed up lives than their own. I guess it makes them feel superior in some respect. Weird really, but I figure it's kinda like if you look at this guy who's house has burned to the ground, his wife's left him for his best friend, and he's just lost his job, hell, your own life has to be all sunshine and puppy dogs by comparison. But there has to be a balance, something that makes a person seem not too pathetic. Being fucked up is fine just as long as it's not the crying in your beer kind of emotional baggage. "It's just that I've been on the road a lot lately, an' you'd be surprised how unfriendly people are when you're trying to sell them encyclopedias they don't want or couldn't afford even if they did. An' I guess it's just kinda nice talkin' with someone who isn't slamming the door in my face or sicking their Doberman on me."

Dean chuckled, probably visualizing me running away from some vicious dog while trying to hold onto an armful of heavy books. Casting a glance in Sam's direction, he took a sip of his drink, and set the glass aside. "If you hate your job so much why do you do it?"

"I guess because it's the family business – my father owned the company before he died, an' I guess he just didn't think I was cut out to do anything better with my life. An' so here I am." I raised my hands and gestured toward myself. "A twenty-nine year old sales man with a nagging wife." I laughed at the pathetic details of my imaginary profession. "It's kinda like some huge cosmic joke, an' somewhere out there my father's laughing because he knew he was right about me."

"I get that," Dean said with a slight nod. His eyes were reflective, edged with subtle anger, and I could just feel how angry he was at his father. It rolled off of him in crashing waves, staggering me momentarily. "You know the whole family business thing . . . you can't get out of it – you can't think of doing anything else because that's just the way things are."

"Ahhh . . . you're young, you've still got plenty of time to be whatever you wanna be."

"Naww . . . my Dad's a my way or the highway type of guy, too. An' I guess it's not all bad."

"What's he do for a living?" _Besides hunt imaginary creatures, _I added to myself with a smile, and took another bite of my sandwich so he wouldn't notice.

Dean was quiet for a moment as if trying to construe the best possible lie to explain his father's apparent insanity. "He's an exterminator . . . we kill unwanted pests for a living," he replied, smiling awkwardly as if ashamed of his father's profession of choice.

I chuckled heartily at his imaginative description of hunting with his father. His execution of the lie was flawless, just the right inflection in his tone, the perfect amount of embarrassment, and just the right amount of eye contact. If I didn't know John was several buckets shy of a full load, I probably would have believed him. "Pardon my saying," I uttered between laughs, "but that sounds worse than selling encyclopedias."

"Believe me it has its moments." Grimacing, he rubbed his sore ribs as if recalling with anger the reason he wasn't out hunting the dreaded Wendigo with John instead of sitting there talking to me.

"Well, I'd better get moving along," I said, taking the last bite of my sandwich and swallowing it down with my coffee. "It was nice talkin' to ya." Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out my wallet, and threw a few bills onto the counter. "It's my treat," I added, nudging my head toward his unfinished burger. "Kind of a thanks for letting me ramble on." Turning my back on him, I headed toward the door, calling back over my shoulder, "Take care of yourself."

I strolled out of the building confident that I would see him very soon as I'd planned on having car trouble that I just couldn't seem to fix myself. Yeah, he'd help me. Gratitude goes a long way with certain people, and I could sense that Dean was not the type who would like to feel like he owed anything to anyone.


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks for reading and for the awesome reviews. Hopefully people are enjoying a glimpse into the mind of Charlie and his obsession with the boys. bambers;)

Chapter Three

My mother was very religious - on Sundays. She was all about putting on a good appearance, wearing her best clothes and dressing me up in ridiculous little suits. She'd smile and chat with all the parish members as if they were the best of friends. She spoke of looking to the Lord in her times of strife, and how it got her through the tough times. Funny, I'd always thought it was the bottle of whiskey she hid on the top shelf in the kitchen cabinet that got her through those rough patches. The strange thing is that they'd always believed her, and called her an inspiration. She liked that.

I'd studied her a lot when I was younger, and was often surprised how easily she could slip into roles that were so out of character for her. She was the concerned parent during teacher's conferences, the loving, devoted wife when entertaining my father's friends, and the compassionate friend to those in need. But when she was by herself, thinking no one was watching, she was the spiteful bitch who slashed my old man's tires because he came home well after midnight without a good enough excuse.

Still, she fascinated me in all her intricacies. I found myself searching out traits I found interesting about her in others, and soon learned that all people had odd quirks that made them uniquely fascinating. I'd learned that the simple position of a person's head could say a lot about how they were feeling. People who talked to themselves often look down and to the left. As I researched this peculiarity, I'd made my own determination that as they would look up and to the left to recall memories, similarly when working out the details of some situation in their lives, they would remain looking to the left but downward to hide the fact they were talking to themselves.

When a person wants to hold dominance over another, I've found there's nothing more powerful than holding firm eye contact with them. It's a power play - a rush. I like to call it a complete mind fuck. Weak people will always break eye contact first. They guard themselves, fearful that someone might see inside their pathetic little lives in those long glances.

Although I'm certain John has done his job well, and Dean is as physically capable as any fully trained Marine, he really screwed him royally as far as emotional baggage is concerned. I guess he never figured to include Dean protecting Sam from someone like me into the equation. Sucks to be him.

With head lowered beneath the hood of my sedan, hands braced against the edges of the car, I pretended to study the engine as I cast a furtive glance in the direction of the diner across the street from the motel. The two youngest Winchesters exited the building, and strode back toward their motel room, and I couldn't help but smile.

Through squinted eyes, Dean kept his sights pinned on his intended destination, attesting to his wariness to be out in the open where anything could happen to his younger brother. His thumbs were hooked into the pockets of his jeans, which at first would've probably made him looked relaxed, but to me it was a clear sign that he feared if he actually buried them all the way inside, his reaction time to any danger would be seriously impeded.

Taking the role of subservient bitch, Sam followed at a step behind. It was natural for him - second nature. Whether it was because he was genuinely fearful that someone might want to hurt him and needed big brother to protect him or if he figured it was easier than arguing with Dean, I wasn't sure of yet, but would soon find out.

A frown furrowed at my brow as I considered the youngest Winchester. I'd always been able to read people with uncanny accuracy, my mother said it was a gift we shared in common, but Sam was difficult. Annoyingly difficult. Sure, I could still gather things from his physical cues, but I couldn't feel his anger twist in my gut or taste his fear in the same way as I had with others. I hadn't thought it possible, but it was as if he somehow subconsciously blocked every attempt I made to delve further into his mind. I hated him for it. I would make him suffer more because of it.

As I'd intended, Dean recognized me the moment they passed by on the way to their room. His body tensed with sudden indecision, and I could feel the war of what ifs as they played out in his mind as he cast several quick glances in my direction.

I relaxed my posture, leaning further into the mouth of the car to tinker with the engine, and felt rather than saw him relax his own stance. For as weird as it sounded, I'd always had a knack for controlling the mood or atmosphere around myself. I'd attributed it to all my training as a profiler, learning how to control the scene as I chatted with the most vicious of criminal minds. But I'd have to say that it was an especially cool trait when I connected with someone like Dean. He wanted to keep me out, I could feel it in every breath he took, each glance, every twinge of his body, but it was as if he couldn't help himself.

Purposely dragging my thumb along the edge of a sharp piece of metal, I jerked back suddenly. "Sonvua - " Blood dripping down my wrist, I shook my hand, splattering droplets of crimson onto the pavement.

"Need some help?" Dean asked hesitantly, taking a tentative step in my direction with Sam directly behind him.

"Only if you've got some lighter fluid an' a pack of matches so I can torch this damn thing," I grumbled, and then turned to look in his direction.

"Naww . . . I don't, but I'm pretty good with cars."

"Well," I paused as if undecided, and lowered my eyes as if embarrassed that I didn't have the know how to fix my own car. "Putting it to a fiery death would probably be preferable at the moment as I'm supposed to be in Virginia by tomorrow, but if you think you can fix it, I'd certainly appreciate it." I boldly met and held his green-eyed gaze, silently willing him to look away first, and after a few moments he lowered his head submissively. "I'm Charlie by the way." I held out my hand to him, and after a momentary pause he took hold of it and shook it.

"I'm Dean," he hitched a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing toward Sam and added, "An' this is my brother Sam."

"So you really think you can fix it?" I said, returning my attention to my vehicle, knowing that the bad spark plugs I'd replace the brand new ones with, along with the loosened distributor cap were the problems.

"My brother can fix any car," Sam piped in proudly, boasting on his brother's behalf. He turned a critical eye on me, and a frown creased his brow.

"I didn't mean any offense, it's just that I hate it when I can't fix things on my own. An' for as much as I love cars, I've never been able to wrap my brain around how to repair them."

"None taken," Dean assured, leaning over the vehicle to take a look at the engine. "So what's the matter with it?"

"I've been having trouble getting the engine to turn over, and when it does it sputters a lot."

"Can you try starting it for me," he called back over his shoulder as he tinkered with the wires and connectors.

"Sure thing."

I slid behind the wheel, and turned the key in the ignition. The engine rumbled and clicked as I pressed down on the gas pedal, but it failed to turn over.

"Alright, you can stop," Dean shouted, holding up a hand to signal that I should stop.

Slipping out of the car, I moved to stand directly beside Sam. It was a subtle power play against Dean on my part, invading the youngest Winchester's space. He was territorial of his little brother, and it was my way of saying I can take him from you at any given moment, an' there isn't a damn thing you can do to stop me.

"Sammy, why don't you give me a hand?" Dean responded hastily to the bold move on my part. Even if he didn't see me as a threat, the sudden rigidness in his shoulders made it clearly evident that he still wasn't taking any chances where Sam was concerned.

"But Dean, I don't wanna," Sam complained, heaving an exasperated groan. "You know I don't like fixing cars."

"Sam." Dean said his name as if it were meant to be a warning not to disobey him, and Sam let out another groan.

"You like reading, Sam?" I asked, knowing full well that he loved to read, and wanted to prove how easily I could sway him from doing as his brother expected.

"Yeah, I love reading." Sam's eyes lit up at the prospect of not having to help fix the vehicle.

"Well, I'm not sure if you'd be interested, but I have a set of encyclopedias in the trunk of my car, an' you can take a look at them if you wanted to."

"Please, Dean?" Lips puckering, he looked toward Dean. His hazel eyes scrunched slightly in the corners, and my stomach knotted along with Dean's as he wavered.

He wanted to say no - wanted to keep Sam as close as possible to him, I could feel it with every fiber of my being, but he just couldn't bring himself to say no to the look his brother gave him. "But you should probably help your brother," I said, and felt more than heard Dean sigh in relief.

"Come on, Dean, I'll sit right over there," Sam gestured to a chair in front of their motel room door, "an' you know damn well you don't need my help."

"Alright, Sammy," Dean caved, and pointed toward the chair, "but don't you move your ass from that spot, got me?"

"What if I have to go to the bathroom?" Sam smirked, testing Dean's patience.

"Well, then you'll have to hold it."

"Fine." Sam stormed to the chair and plopped down onto the seat, crossing his arms in defiance.

"I didn't mean to cause a problem." I feigned my best contrite look, smiling sincerely at Dean, and he waved his hand dismissively.

"Don't worry about it."

Dean went back to fixing my car while Sam flipped through the pages of one of the encyclopedias, and through lowered lashes, I studied them closely. I was not the least bit surprised that Dean had a knack for repairing engines, but was somewhat amazed how much he truly enjoyed what I considered a menial task. Twice, he'd asked me to run to the auto supply store to get him parts, and luckily the shop was only a block or so away from the motel. On my way back from my second trip, I stopped at the local convenient store and bought a bottle of soda for the boys and a cup of coffee for myself. Once outside, I traveled around to the side of the building, opened the bottle, and poured in enough sedatives to knock them both on their asses. They had to be thirsty, especially Dean, and after they took a drink it wouldn't be too long before I had them both. Tightening the cap back into place, I slipped out of the shadows and headed back to the motel.

Handing the spark plugs and wires to Dean, I strode toward my motel room. "I bought some soda," I called back over my shoulder, "Do you guys wanna drink?"

"Sure," they both uttered in unison, and my heart beat increased ever-so-slightly.

"Let me just get some cups, an' I'll be right back."

Inside my motel room, I paced myself. Seem to eager about anything, and it's bound to tip off someone, and Dean being suspicious by nature would definitely find it odd if I rushed back outside. After an acceptable amount of time had passed, I exited the room with the bottle of soda, two glasses tucked in the crook of my arm and my cup of coffee. Setting my coffee on the window ledge, I purposely opened the bottle under the watchful eyes of Dean. The bottle hissed as the carbonation was released, a sound certain to reassure the elder of the two that it was safe to drink.

"Here ya go." I handed the first of the two glasses to Dean, poured the next and gave it to Sam. Just as I had suspected he would, Dean downed his soda in a matter of a few moments, and wiped the back of his hand across his lips. Sam, on the other hand, was a sipper - an aggravatingly slow sipper. Handing Dean the bottle to refill his cup, I grabbed my coffee from the ledge and took a long swallow.

"So is it almost fixed," I asked, making small talk as I glanced in the direction of my car.

"Pretty much, just have to put in the new spark plugs and you should be all set." Dean wiped his hand across his sweaty, grease-covered forehead. His eyes, now dulling with the affects of the sedative, still shone with pride in his handiwork. "You should probably get your oil changed wh-when you get . . . ." His voice trailed off as he blinked hard and shook his head to try and combat the drowsiness. "Wh-when you get where your going."

"Will do. Thanks." I nodded, taking another gulp pf my coffee. "Your brother looks worn out, maybe you should take him inside," I added, bobbing my head in Sam's direction.

"I'm not tired," Sam grumbled, rubbing his eyes as he stifled a yawn.

"Sammy, finish your drink," Dean ordered in a no nonsense manner. "Dad should be back soon, an' we've got things to do before he gets here," he lied effortlessly, and had I not known that John would be gone for at least five more days, I would have believed him.

"Alright, Dean," Sam muttered stifling yet another yawn. Polishing off the rest of his soda, he handed the cup back to me.

Dean had drank down two glasses before Sam had finished his first, but it really didn't matter. He was smaller so it took a lot less to yield the same results. His eyelids grew heavier, and for all intended purposes, it appeared as if he was exhausted instead of drugged. His head bobbed forward, and jerked up suddenly as he fought the effects of the drug, and still it never dawned on him what I had done.

"Thanks." Sam smiled awkwardly, passing the encyclopedia he was reading back to me.

"Not a problem."

Sam's head snapped forward again, and just as abruptly, he jerked it back. His glassy eyes shifted out of focus as he tried to train them on Dean. "D-Dea . . . I don't . . . I feel . . . ." Shoulders slumping, his eyelids fluttered closed.

"Sammy?" Dean scrunched his eyes in confusion, shaking his head again to try and clear it, but from the glassy appearance of his green orbs, I could tell he wasn't that far from falling flat on his face. "S-Sammmy . . . whass wrong?" he slurred, taking a staggering step in his brother's direction. He glanced down at the cup in his hand, and then to the bottle, and horrible understanding briefly flitted across his features.

"What's wrong, Dean?" I asked, smiling as he stumbled toward his little brother. "You don't look so well . . . maybe it was something you ate?"

"Or drank?" he mumbled, fighting to keep his eyes open.

With a shrug, I took a step in his direction. "True, it might've been something you drank."

"Y-you sonuvabitch." Fumbling, he somehow managed to hook an arm around Sam's back and hauled him halfway to his feet before his knees buckled and they both crumpled to the ground.

"Yeah, it was definitely in the drink." Chuckling, I hefted Dean off the ground, and dragged him into his motel room.


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks for reading, and for the awesome reviews. bambers;)

_Chapter Four_

By the time Dean lifted his head off of his pillow, and groggily glanced around the darkened room, I was long gone with Sam. He wanted to be a hunter - wanted to be just like dear old dad, and I was only too happy to oblige him.

Through my ear piece, I could hear him shuffling around his room, knocking things over in his haste to locate Sam, not yet realizing he wasn't there.

"S-Sam - Sammy," he hoarsely shouted, anguish filling his raspy voice. The sound of more things being up heaved boomed in my ear, and I wished I could see his face at the moment. His overwhelming fear in those moments was staggering. Intoxicating. A knot tightened in my chest, lungs burning as I held my breath, not wanting to miss anything he said as realization dawned on him. "Damn it, Sammy, where the hell are you . . . what the hell did that sonuvabitch do to you?"

"He wants to know where you are, Sammyboy." Grabbing a fistful of Sam's hair, I yanked his head back so he was looking me in the eyes. "You think I should tell him or make him guess?"

"He'll kill you wh-when he finds you."

"Will he?" I chuckled, shifting my position slightly to give him a full view of Alexander. Sam's eyes rounded in unmistakable fear as he gaped at the headless body chained to a chair. Lowering his gaze, he swallowed hard, taking in the college student's head resting on the ground beside the corpse. "Did you know that if you remove the jawbone and teeth, it makes it a real bitch to identify the body?"

"Did you kn-know that when Dean finds you, he's gonna rip you apart, an' shove your head up your ass?" Sam gritted out, and admittedly I was impressed. I'd seen older men crumble for a lot less reasons than the youngest Winchester had at the moment.

"Then maybe I shouldn't let him find me," I smoothly countered with a half-smile. "I have you, what do I need him for?"

"H-he won't stop until he finds me." Sam lurched forward, tugging hard against the metal cuffs around his wrists, to no avail. "He'll find me, an' he'll kill you."

"Maybe." I shrugged, thoroughly enjoying his bravado, and how my carefully chosen words slowly ate away at it like acid eating through flesh. "But you won't be alive to witness it."

"Why us?"

I'd heard similar comments many times in the past, sometimes phased a little differently, and usually they were accompanied with racking, sobbing tears. My stomach fluttered with pleasure, thrilled beyond belief that Sam wasn't crying. Oh, he was afraid - terrified actually, his telltale stuttering attested to this, but he'd been trained by John to stomp down his own fears to get the job done.

"Your father caught my interest, but then I saw Dean . . . an' well, he fascinated the hell out of me - not an easy thing to do, I assure you."

"So you're gonna lure him here with me." It wasn't a question. Sam was anything but stupid, and he rightly surmised that he was merely a means to an end.

"He resents you. Did you know that?" I wanted to understand what made Sam's mind tick. He was so thoroughly closed off to me that it twisted like a knife in my gut. "No matter what he does, he's always daddy's second choice. Betcha somewhere deep down inside, he hates you for it."

"Th-that's not true." He couldn't meet my eyes. I'm sure some of the reason was fear, but there was definitely doubt mingled in with it. His chin was lowered, a protective measure on his part. People tend to feel the most vulnerable when their neck and chin are exposed, and it made sense that he would keep them hidden as much as possible from me.

"And you're wrong, I don't really want to lure him," I said, deliberately switching back to his previous comment to catch him off guard. "I took you to make him squirm."

"M-my brother doesn't squirm for anyone."

Sam peered beyond me to look around the darkened bunker, and I felt the first sparks of real fear igniting within him. He was searching for a way out, but as he took in all the blackened entrances leading to tunnels that stretched out like an octopus' tentacles, he began to tremble.

"When I inherited this land from my grandfather, there was no mention of this place on any of the specs." His eyes widened as he dragged his gaze away from the tunnels, and looked upward toward several sets of chains hanging down from the ceiling."It was by pure luck that I stumbled upon this  
place - I assure you it's very well hidden from prying eyes. Guess I must've had more in common with him than I'd thought." Pushing away from me, he pressed himself back against the stone wall as he stared long and hard at metal coffin shaped in the form of a man. Lifting a brow, I chuckled as I bobbed my head toward the metal contraption. "Back in the olden days they use to lock criminals up in something similar to that coffin, and left them outside to bake in the sun while animals feasted on their flesh through the openings. I made that one myself," I bragged, staring appreciatively at well-formed torture device. "So, what do ya say, Sammyboy, wanna try it on for size?"

Sam raised his hands defensively in front of himself as I took a step toward him. "I-I'm not goin' in that thing." Kicking out suddenly, he struck my knee with his boot. A second kick slammed into my shin, and teetering I tumbled backward into the chair Alexander's headless body rested on.

"Sonuva - " The curse slipped from my lips as the chair crashed to the ground, taking me and Alexander along with it. My fingers slid and slipped through congealed blood as I scrambled to my feet. Narrowing my sights on the youngest Winchester, I wiped my hands on my pants, and stalked back to where he was standing. "You're really gonna regret that." I feigned a punch toward his face, and when he raised his arms to block his face, I smashed a fist into his gut, knocking the wind from him in a rush.

Hunched over, he gasped for breath, and as he slowly drew in several staggered breaths, I took the opportunity to remove a syringe from my pocket. Before he'd even realized what was happening, the needle pierced his skin, and I pressed down on the plunger, releasing the clear liquid into his system.

"How do you feel about drowning, Sammy?" Hearing this, his head snapped up, and he hastily scanned the bunker for anything large enough to drown in. "Don't be so eager, you'll see what I mean soon enough."  
XxXxXxXxXxX

I'd bet no one would've ever guessed that Dean talked to himself when no one else was around. Through my ear piece, I heard him working through all the details of our first encounter, trying to recall if I'd given away any pertinent information that would help him find Sam. Yet, seeing as I'd told him nothing but lies about myself, I wasn't worried that he might stumble upon the truths in my life.

The longer he rehashed our two brief meetings, the harsher and more strained his tone became. I'd chuckled when I heard him refer to me as a sonuvabitch several times throughout his tirade. It sounded to be favorite phase of his, and I loved the way he snarled as he spoke it in reference to me; the tone of his voice was pure magic, wrapping up all the heated venom he felt toward me in one simplistic curse. To me it meant that I'd gotten him right where he lived, a sucker punch to the gut, and he was reeling out of control. I'm fairly certain that if he knew how much it thrilled me to hear him say it, he'd probably strike the word from his vocabulary.

Using a police badge number, Dean had called and ran my license plate, impressing the hell out of me as I hadn't even thought he'd notice them when he'd fixed my car. I'd kind of hoped he would be just as impressed with me when he'd heard back that the plates had been turned in and destroyed. He wasn't impressed. He was beyond furious - I could feel his anger squeezing in on the walls of my heart and cutting off my breath - painful but pleasurable at the same time.

Within the time it took me to drive back to the motel he was staying at, he'd picked up the phone at least four times to call John. The conversations he had with himself at these points went a little something like this - hey Dad, I fucked up royally . . . big surprise right? So yeah, Sam's dead . . . when ya coming home - Of course something might have gotten lost in the translation, but wallowing in self pity has never been my strong suit.

No longer needing my listening device, I removed it from my ear, and stuffed it into my pocket before exiting the vehicle. Anticipation tingled up one side of my spine and down the other as I strolled to Dean's door. I'd imagine what his face would look like when he opened it and saw me standing there. I figured it would be a toss up between a jaw dropping to the ground at my boldness kind of expression or perhaps an icy stare meant to terrify the hell out of me. I was hoping for the latter, but as he answered my knock, I found his expression to be more of a comical mixture of both my imagined reactions.

"Where's my brother, you sonuvabitch," Dean snarled, gripping hold of my jacket, and jerking me toward him. Body tensed, he yanked me into the room, slammed the door shut, and rammed me against the wall. Not a very smart thing to do, if you'd asked me. Yet, who am I to argue with him? Although I know I wouldn't want to trap a killer such as myself in a bedroom with multiple weapons at my disposal.

"Oh, Sammy . . . I killed him hours ago." In a blink, his tough as concrete facade broke away, shattering. The intense gleam in his light green eyes dulled as if I'd stabbed him in the throat, and his life force was rapidly leaving him right before my eyes. So I figured what the hell, why not twist that knife just a little bit more. "You wanna know where you can find all the body parts so you can give him a proper burial?"

Faster than I'd imagined possible, a knife was being pressed into my throat, slicing into the flesh above my Adam's apple. "Jus' kiddin', Dean," I managed to choke out with a strained laugh. "Think I'd be stupid enough to come here if he was dead? But if ya kill me now, you'll never get to him in time, and that's a promise."

"Where. Is. He?" He stressed each word as if I he really thought he could frighten me instead of thrill me.

"If you really wanna know then I guess you're gonna have to put the knife down." See, the thing about a power play is that you have to have something the other person desperately wants. I have Sammy, so I'm aces. Dean - well, he has a knife. So it only stands to reason that he'll lose. "The clock is ticking, Dean." Lifting a superior brow, I tapped the face of my watch. "Tick-tock. Tick-tock."

"No freakin' way," Dean snarled, lips curling as rage contorted his features, making him appear every bit as deadly as a panther toying with its prey. "If you don't tell me where he is right now, I'll cut you apart piece by piece until you're screaming out what I wanna hear."

"Go ahead." I shrugged. "Sam'll die long before I do." A gloating smirk slid across my features as he hesitated and his hand slackened around the hilt of the blade. "Oh, by the way, just how long do you think Sammyboy can hold his breath under water? It'd be really awkward if he died before I had the chance to bring you to him. You'd be pissed, I'd be embarrassed, and our whole budding friendship would become strained - an' I like you, Dean, I really do, so maybe you should give me the knife."

He was wavering, I could sense it in the way his shoulders shifted back and his body tensed defensively. The muscle in his right cheek twitched as he glared at me with those amazingly expressive eyes of his. After staring at me a moment longer, he reluctantly dropped the knife into my outstretched hand. His stance shifted to protective mode, legs spread slightly apart, chin downward to protect his throat, arms bent outward in front of his chest and stomach as he anticipated an attack.

"Wise choice, Dean." I turned my back on him - an insult really, one I'm sure didn't slip by him. I could feel his heated glare on my back, and I swear I could almost feel his gut clench as if it were my own. "Bet John would've killed me, but it's good to know that you took the moral higher ground. Course he's probably gonna be as pissed as all hell when he finds this out."

"I want my brother back," Dean gritted out, holding his ground near the door as I strode to the table the television and VCR sat on, and flipped in the tape I'd brought with me. "If I did something to you then just take me, an' leave him out of this."

"What could you've possibly done to me, Dean?" I chuckled as I switched on the television, and hit the play button on the tape player. "You don't even know me."

"Maybe not directly," he reasoned, searching for an explanation as to why I would have a grudge against them. "But maybe we didn't save some family member of yours, an' this is your way of getting back at us."

The odd comment threw me for a moment, until I remembered the freak sideshow circus that was the Winchester family. "Yeah, that's exactly it, Dean." I liked saying his named as much as possible, it unnerved him. To him it meant I knew a whole helluva lot more about him than he was comfortable with. Familiarity breeds one very unsettled Winchester. "It was a werewolf, an' my wife died because of you."

His eyes momentarily lifted upward and to the left as he tried to recall if he'd seen me at all when he'd hunted the imaginary creature. Weird really, I would've thought they would have glanced upward to the right as he remembered and added to the details of his father's delusions. "As soon as we found out about the sonuvabitch, we killed it. This isn't Sam's fault . . . just let him go."

"Dean, do I really look like the kind of guy you can reason with?" I pivoted on my heel to face him, and gestured up and down the length of my body with the tip of the blade. "But just so you don't get all bent out of shape, which would really ruin my fun, no one in my family died because of you. Feel better?" Feigning a sigh of relief, I smiled. "Cause I know I sure do."

"You sonuvabitch, what the hell do want from me?"

"I thought it was obvious." I splayed my hand out in the direction the television screen. "I brought a movie. I'd thought we'd make some popcorn, an' maybe have a few beers while we watch Sammy die." Dean glanced around me, and took a look at the television for the first time. The first beads of sweat formed above his brow as he stared at his little brother making his on screen debut in living color. "Want me to turn up the sound so you can hear him screaming?"

"Sammy," he breathed, covering a hand over his mouth as the full impact of what he was seeing crushed downward on him.

"See, here's the thing, Dean." Pulling up a chair, I took a seat and stretched out my legs, crossing them in a relaxed manner. "I built that tank myself, I know how much water it holds - an' I know those chains around his wrists and ankles are gonna be the death of him. Unless . . . ." I allowed my voice to trail off, giving him time to put all the pieces together for himself.

"Unless I go with you," he murmured as he slumped down on the bed. His eyes remained glued to the horror of watching water stream down over the top of Sam's head to fill the tank. The water level was already well past his knees, and as Dean continued to watch his little brother struggle to break free, the water pouring from the spout overhead increased. Sam furiously squirmed and kicked against the restraints, but he was rapidly tiring.

"It's your choice, but the longer I'm away, the faster the water will fall - a little insurance policy on my part."

"What if I just kill you now an' find him on my own?" he uttered, trying to bolster himself to do whatever was necessary to keep Sam safe.

"Granted, I think you're probably really smart in your own way and very resourceful, but you'll never find him."

Narrowing his eyes, he studied the screen, searching for any details in the bunker that might help him locate it without my help. Unfortunately for him, the dark, grainy picture gave away nothing that would be construed as remotely helpful in finding his brother. "I go with you an' you kill us both, right?"

"Not necessarily." Reaching into my pocket, I yanked out a pair of handcuffs and casually tossed them to him. "Put 'em on, Dean, while Sam still has a chance to live."

For a moment longer, Dean hesitated and then I heard the cuffs click into place around his wrists. No doubt he could slip out of them if wanted to or he would've never given in so easily. I'd counted on it, but he probably didn't count on the sedative in my pocket.

"Alright, I've done what you've asked, now take me to my brother."

"Call John first."

"What?" Dean's eye grew wide, seemingly more afraid of his father's wrath than of my threats. It was almost laughable, the cocky bastard actually believed he could save Sam from me. "I can't call him."

"Sure you can, Dean, an' you will or Sam dies." I stood, grabbed the phone off the bedside table and shoved it into his hands. "If you think I'm lying, just try me."

"You sonuvabitch."

"Yeah, I really am, aren't I?" Chuckling, I slipped my hand into the pocket of my coat, and pulled out a syringe. "Now call."

Grudgingly, he picked up the receiver, and viciously jabbed at the buttons. His hand clenched firmly around the phone as he held it up to his ear, and his grimace signaled when his father answered. "Dad . . . ." his voice trailed off abruptly as I jabbed the needle into him, and squeezed the plunger. He hissed out a low growl as he glared at me.

"Go on, Dean, tell John how you let down your guard an' now Sam's gonna die because of it." We locked eyes for a moment, and in that brief exchange, I felt his hatred for me snake out and wrap tightly around my heart. Oddly enough, as I thought of various ways to make him squirm, I noticed a slight tremor course through his body before his posture turned rigid. "Tell him or I swear I'll leave you here, an' Sam'll die."

"Dad . . . I-I - "

"Fucked up . . . say Dad, I fucked up." Leaning in closer, invading his personal space, I saw and felt him cringe. "Say it - say you screwed up, an' now Sam's gonna die because of you." A menacing smile slid across my features, instinctively understanding how much Dean idolized his father, and how much it would kill him inside to admit he'd failed John in any way. "It's not like he doesn't already know you're a pathetic loser, Dean, so just tell him."

Dean blinked hard, the rage glittering in his eyes dulling as the sedative quickly dragged him under. "C-Charlie," he stammered defiantly into the phone, "B-bunker . . . . F-find 'im . . . kill 'im." The phone dropped from his hand as he lost consciousness and fell backward onto the bed.

"Bravo, Dean." I grinned as I picked up the phone, and put it to my ear. "Hello, John, I'm Charlie."

"Where the hell are my sons?" John snarled into the phone, and I could just picture the cold fury in his dark eyes as he imagined all the ways he would make me suffer if I hurt either of his boys.

"You have forty-eight hours to find them . . . maybe less." I chuckled, wondering if anyone ever really adhered to time frames. People rarely show up exactly on time to anything, they're usually early or late, and no one ever stops to question it unless a life hangs in the balance. "But if you happen to be late, which one should I kill first? Dean or Sam . . . Sam or Dean?"

"You harm my boys in any way, an' I swear to God, I'll cut you apart an' rip your heart out through your throat."

"Nice threat, John - maybe that's what I'll do to Sammy," I taunted, certain it would infuriate him that I wasn't even slightly intimidated by him. "Now tell me, is it gonna be Sam or Dean?"

"I'm not choosing between my sons, you sonuvabitch."

"You know, I kinda like it better when Dean calls me that. I dunno, maybe it's just the glint in his eyes when he says it - it's almost like he really means it."

"I wanna talk to Sam," John commanded as if I were one of his boys, and would follow his orders without exception.

"Afraid that's impossible right now," I laughed, "he's drowning at the moment."

I heard him draw in a sharp intake of air, and then he growled into the phone, "Put Dean back on the phone."

"I would, but he's taking a nap." I was so right to have Dean call John. This was more fun than I'd had in a long time. It was only too bad it couldn't last longer. "I'm losing my patience, John, so tell me which one dies first? If you don't decide, I will. And I can assure you, they'll suffer more because you were too weak to make a decision."

After a very lengthy pause, he finally uttered, "Dean."

"Good choice on your part." I nodded my approval, not the least bit surprised by his answer. "He's older, stronger, and has a better chance to survive long enough for you to find me. Only problem there is how it's gonna break him inside when I tell him that you chose Sam over him."

"I'm gonna kill you, you sonuvabitch."

"You'll have to find me first." Without waiting for him to say another word, I jabbed the disconnect button.


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks for reading . . . if you're enjoying in the slightest let me know as I am getting a little discouraged. bambers;)

Chapter Five

When I was in training to be a profiler, I'd briefly dated this girl who was complete obsessed with plants and herbs. We couldn't go anywhere without her pointing to some flower or shrub and giving me its proper name. Luckily for her, she was also really into rough sex or I probably would've killed her. But that kinda thing tends to ruin a perfectly good work record.

One rule to remember, never become completely obsessed with anyone who can be directly or indirectly related back to you. Eventually someone might catch on if people you know always seem to die horrific deaths.

Anyway, she studied them in the same way as I studied the Winchesters, and that sparked my interest. Anytime something can hold someone's interest so completely, it thoroughly fascinates me, and I found myself devouring book after book learning everything I could about various plants, trees and herbs.

_Belladonna. Order - Solanales. Family - Solanaceae. Genus - Atropa._ I remember that one most fondly as it is one of the most toxic plants species known to man. But there were others, ones that were just as intriguing in their own insidious ways.

For instance, White Mangrove or Blind-Your-Eye Mangrove can cause temporary blindness if it comes in contact with the eyes. I can tell you from experience, nothing will twist in your gut more than blindly stumbling around when someone is stalking you. Well, except for maybe blindly stumbling around while searching for your brother who's about to drown as a murderer stalks you.

I'd like to think Dean would find this kind of information useful. At the very least, I'd think he would appreciate the effort I went through to impress him with my knowledge. Although with his eyes stinging like all hell, not to mention the blistering skin, I doubt he'll admit to anything at the moment.

From my perch across the room from him, I watched as he blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the darkness he perceived. His fingertips grazed along his cheekbones, and instantaneously he jerked them back, wincing and cursing as he touched his blistered skin. In his confused state, his mind refused to believe or accept the fact that the room wasn't all that dark. But as the moments slowly ticked by, his eyes widened in growing panic, realizing that even if it was dark, he should at the very least be able to see shadows and outlines of his surroundings. If true fear were to have a scent, it would smell exactly like Dean Winchester smelled at this moment.

I wondered if he knew I was studying him in those unguarded seconds when he was more worried about himself than everyone else who he'd thought needed his protection. Seconds being the key word there, as he didn't know how to do it properly - couldn't wrap his mind around the concept of putting himself above others. It was almost as if I could hear the nagging thoughts churning through his head, and they all circled back to the same pathetic, self-sacrificing bullshit. If he couldn't see, how could he protect Sam from me . . . if he couldn't see, his father would have no use for him. He would be useless. A burden to his family. So being the kinda guy I am, I couldn't resist the urge to prove him right.

"You know," I began, and Dean's head abruptly jerked toward the sound of my voice. "I asked your father which one of you I should kill first - and what with giving him time to save only one of you, guess who daddy chose to die?"

"Where's my brother?" he snarled, leaping off the table he was resting on, and immediately tumbled over a heavy crate I'd purposely set in his path. Groping at the edges of the wooden container, he dragged himself back to his feet.

"Answer my question first," I taunted, chuckling as he spread his hands out in front of himself, and hunched down to feel around for any other obstacles that he might stumble over in his hast to get to me.

"He wouldn't chose between us," he uttered, edging his way around another crate. Although he tried to sound as if he really believed what he'd said, I could see the doubt creeping onto his features. Brows furrowing, he lowered his sights as his lower lip quivered.

"Damn, Dean, you could've at least tried to sound believable there." Silently I slipped out of my chair, and crept around the to the other side of the room as I watched him blindly stumble toward where he'd last heard me speak. After several very long moments, he reached the wall, and using it as a guide, followed it to where I'd been sitting. "I'd actually tape recorded his response, but what fun would it be to play it if you already know he'd pick you to die over Sam any day of the week?"

Dean whirled around, teetered momentarily and luckily gripped hold of the chair before he fell flat on his face again. "He wouldn't do that."

"Aww . . . don't act so put out, it's not like you didn't know he would always choose Sam over you." Once again, I stealthily crept from my spot and moved to stand beside the long wooden table he'd been laying on before he knew I was in the room with him.

"You're just tryin' to screw with my head, but I'm not gonna listen to you." Bracing his hand against the cement wall, he balanced himself and carefully moved out into the center of the room. With hands still outstretched, he craned his neck and tilted his head to the side to listen for any movements I might make. "Where are you, you sonuvabitch?"

"He picked you, Dean. But you already knew that, didn't you?" I slipped around the table, and headed toward the entrance of the room as he cautiously made his way to the table. "Maybe I should kill Sammy first - it'll get to him right in the gut knowing that he'll get stuck with you if he makes it here in time."

Unnerved by his blindness along with my constant taunts and lithe movements around the expanse of the room, Dean hesitated for a moment as he gripped the edge of the table. His shoulders slumped, self-doubt waging a devastating war in his mind. So I figured, no better time than the present to twist the screws a little tighter.

Although my conversation with John was rather damning on his part, Dean would more than likely understand his reasoning just as I had. His lengthy pause between answering my question was also presented another problem. It showed how hard it was for him to make the decision, and would only serve to strengthen his son's belief that he choose him because he was stronger. So rather than play the original version, I'd spliced, reworked and looped the tape, assuring that there would be no doubt in Dean's mind who his dad preferred.

From my pocket, I yanked out the remote and hit the button, starting the overhead audio. The sound of John's voice boomed and echoed throughout the entire expanse of the underground bunker, assuring no matter where Dean went, he would not escape the fact that his father loved him less.

_"You harm Sam in any way, an' I swear to God, I'll cut you apart an' rip your heart out through your throat."_

_"Nice threat, John - Now tell me, is it gonna be Sam or Dean?"  
_

_"Dean."_

_"Good choice on your part."_

The tape looped and started over again, and I swear I felt Dean's lungs deflate as his heart and soul crumbled. "Damn, it must really suck to hear your father confirm what you've always feared," I shouted so he could hear me above the sound of the recording. "But it's not like you truly thought he would pick you over Sam in the first place, right?" I chuckled as I backed out of the room. "You know I'd actually thought it would be a tougher decision on his part, Dean, but he didn't even hesitate."

"Where's Sam?" he gritted out, making a conscious effort to block out both the recording and my taunts as he edged his way around the table. Bracing his hand against the wall, he followed it toward the entrance of the room.

"Ever play Blind Man's Bluff, Dean?" I asked, taking measured backward steps through the tunnel, leaving him no choice but to leave the relative safety of the room he was in. "I'm sure you know the rules of the game. I blind you, and you in turn have to find Sam before he drowns."

"An' if I win?" With one hand pressed against the earthen wall of the tunnel, Dean reached out in front of himself, and crouched to feel around for any obstacles he might stumble over.

"Obviously you've never played as there's never really a true winner, the game just starts all over again until there's nothing left but a bunch of losers."

"What are the rules?" he asked as he carefully moved around a stack of pallets blocking his path.

Admittedly, I liked how he remained focused on his goal no matter how brokenhearted he was at the moment. I had sensed right from the beginning that we were very similar in a lot of ways, and this confirmed my suspicions.

"Well, there has to be a time limit - games get boring if they go on indefinitely." I slipped back further into the darkness of the tunnel as he continued to pursue me at a much slower pace.

"How long?"

"Last time I checked, the water level was up to about his chest, so I'd say ten to fifteen minutes at the most."

"An' what happens when I find him?"

I grinned at his cocksure attitude, so like my own. There was no doubt in his tone that he would indeed find his brother. Weird, but I could almost picture us being friends if it weren't for the little fact that I would kill his brother.

"Finding him is only half the fun of the game, Dean," I assured, laughing as he stumbled over a cement block laying on the dirt ground. "Once you find him, we enter into sudden death - bad pun there, I know, but I can't always be amazingly clever in my quips," I added, slowing my pace as he pulled himself back up into a standing position.

"Sudden death," Dean echoed my taunt, blinking hard against the stinging pain in his watery eyes. "I have to somehow get him out before he drowns," he rightly surmised.

"See, I'm pretty sure you can probably pick the locks on his handcuffs, but I'm really interested to see how long it'll take you if you're underwater at the time."

"Not a problem."

"Oh, I didn't think for one moment that it would be - I'm just wondering how you're gonna get past the motion sensors."

"Sensors?" Dean stopped short, apparently reevaluating his bust in, save the damsel in distress plan of action.

"Nothing to worry about really, I'm sure you've got it all figured out," I said, deliberately ducking into a tunnel that led away from where Sam was located.

"What happens if I trip them?"

"Ever seen a flood gate open, Dean?"

I slipped away then, leaving Dean to find Sam on his own. Above the sound of the looped recording of John, I could hear him shouting to me, but when I failed to respond he began calling out to Sam. With a triumphant grin plastered to my face, I hastily made my way into the control room I'd built, and took a seat in front of a wall of television monitors to watch his progress.

Even blind, there was a catlike grace to his purposeful movements. Through one of the cameras, I zeroed in on his face, and noticed that his eyes were closed as he edged his way down the long corridor. I knew that he did this partly due to the burning pain of the poisonous sap in them, but also understood that he was consciously shutting down the one sense that was impeding his goal in finding Sam while relying on those that still worked properly.

He moved more quickly now, but was still mindful of where he was stepping. I chuckled to myself, thinking that if I had thought of it at the time, I would've dug out a deep pit to see how he would've maneuvered around it. No doubt he would've figured out some way past it, but I would've loved to the see the expression of pure unadulterated rage on his face when he stumbled upon it. In those moments, I even imagined how pissed he would be if he happened to fall in, and the explosion of curse words that would assuredly ensue.

My heartbeat quickened as he bypassed the darkened corridor leading to where Sam was trapped, and headed deeper into the maze of earthen tunnels. Swiveling in my chair, I glanced at the screen that monitored Sam. The water in the tank was now covering his shoulders, splashing up into his mouth and nose as he thrashed about wildly trying to free himself.

"Sonuva - " I muttered, shaking my head in disappointment. I couldn't very well let him die just yet. It would be too quick. Too easy. I'd worked my mind through so many little scenarios as to how they would die, and none of them involved Sam dying without Dean being there to witness it. I needed to see his face in those final moments. Needed to see the defeat register in his eyes. Needed to see him crumble, knowing full well that I was a better hunter than him.

Plus there was also the pain factor. There was something just so extremely unsatisfying about standing on the sidelines merely a bystander to their deaths.

Grudgingly, I picked up the microphone, turned down the taped recording, and clearing my throat, I pressed the button and called out to Dean. "You're going the wrong way, ya idiot. Damn, it's no wonder you're father chose Sam over you. So I'd suggest you turn around, go back around thirty feet, and make a left."

Dean pivoted on his heel, lifting his head to search for where my voice had originated from. "Why the hell should I believe you?" he shouted, body trembling as he dug his fingertips into the harden dirt-packed wall. Oh, he was thoroughly pissed . . . well beyond it actually, knowing that I could be lying, but also realizing he had little choice in the matter.

"The water's past his shoulders now, so I'm guessing that's just a chance you're gonna have to take, isn't it?" I released the button, and set the microphone back down. Leaning back in the leather chair, I clasped my hands behind my head and propped my feet against the table, waiting for him to determine his next move.

For a moment he stood motionless, more than likely arguing with himself as to all the reasons he shouldn't trust me, and then I noticed a deep scowl furrow his brow. Whether he liked it or not, he had no choice, he had to listen to me and put the fate of his brother's life into the hands of a killer.

"I'm gonna kill you, you sonuvabitch," he hollered, turning back to head in the direction he'd just come from. "After I find him, I'm coming for you."

"Promises, promises, Dean." Laughter bubbled on my lips as I turned up the volume of John choosing Sam over him.

Within a few moments, Dean was traveling down the right tunnel, and was so close to finding Sam that my breath caught in my throat. Not wanting to miss a moment of the touching brotherly reunion, I pushed forward in my seat and leaned closer to the screen.

"Sammy," Dean hollered, panic filling his voice as he heard the sound of water gushing down from a pipe somewhere overhead. "Sammy, answer me."

"D-Dea . . . ." Sam called out weakly, teeth chattering as he struggled to keep his head above water. "I- I'm h-here, Dean."

"Sam, I can't see you, so you've gotta keep talking so I can find you," Dean ordered, taking a cautious step into the room. "I'm gonna find ya, Sammy, an' we're gonna get out of here, you just need to keep talking," he reiterated when Sam failed to respond.

"S-so c-cold, D-Dea," Sam finally sputtered, spitting out a mouthful of water.

"I know, Sammy, but don't you give up on me." Pressing his back against the wall, Dean edged his way around the room as he searched with his fingertips for the censors I'd warned him about.

"S-so t-tired, Dean."

Certain I felt Dean's heart clenched firmly hearing the defeat in Sam's tone, I leaned even closer to witness the expression on his face. There was just something marvelously expressive about his features contorted in pain and fear that caused my stomach flutter in wild anticipation.

"Listen to me, Sam," Dean commanded, sounding every bit like John at the moment. "No matter what, you try an' keep your head above water for as long as possible. Got me?"

"Y-Yea - " Sam's voice broke off suddenly as his mouth filled with water. Spitting out the water, he gasped and coughed as he tried to draw in a breath. Standing on his toes, he wrapped his hands around the chains holding him prisoner, and pulled himself upward in an attempt to give Dean more time. "D-Dea - I-I'm n-not . . . pl-please - I d-don't wanna drown, Dean."

"I'm not gonna let that happen, Sammy," Dean tried to reassure, but I noticed the slight waver in his tone, attesting to his doubts, and wondered if Sam had picked up on it as well.

Halfway across the outer expanse of the room, Dean ran into a table I'd placed in the path, figuring he would try to skim his way around the wall to get to his brother. His head immediately jerked up, and I laughed as I saw him glare into one of the camera as if he instinctively knew where it was situated.

Hitting the button on the microphone, I called out to him. "Sorry about that, but where would the challenge be if I made it too easy for you?" Without acknowledging my taunt, he carefully pulled himself up onto the table and slid across it. "Oh bravo, Dean, I would've never thought in a million years that you'd go over the table instead of around it - but maybe you really should have gone under it instead."

Within a moment the water coming from the pipe increased, crashing down over Sam. Quickly dropping to the ground, he inadvertently knocked over a metal pipe I'd placed near the table, and after giving it only a momentary thought he snatched it up. Mindless to anything other than rescuing Sam, he hastily gave up his cautious trek around the room, and raced toward where he heard his brother's broken pleas for help.

Firmly gripping a hold of the thick pipe in both hands, he cocked back his arms and swung at the glass, hoping to shatter it. Not a bad plan - I'd give him that much, if he'd conceded that it was smart thinking on my part to build the tank with reinforced shatter-proof glass. Not to mention that it was a dummy glass partition, and even if he did somehow manage to break through after his third or fourth swing, he'd still be no closer to his objective.

From my vantage point, I held my breath and watched as Sam's face dipped below the surface of the water. "Better hit it harder," I warned in a menacingly low tone. "Or think of another plan fast cause Sammyboy's drowning."

Dean stopped mid-strike and craned his head to listen to his brother, but heard nothing but a gurgling sound coming from inside the watery tomb. "Sam . . . Sammy!"


	6. Chapter 6

_lol...I had thought I was really moving along on this chappy only to realize it was only two pages long...couldn't let that happen so I worked it through and hopefully it doesn't suck too bad. thanks for the really great reviews!! bambers;)_

_Chapter Six_

Once when I was younger, my grandfather took me to a magic show and this guy did this cool trick where he escaped from a tank full of water while handcuffed and shackled to the floor. For dramatic flare, they draped a sheet over the tank and cast a spotlight on him as he squirmed against the restraints. Of course this also hid the fact that he'd pulled the key out of his mouth, where it had rested against his teeth and cheek until needed, and easily opened the locks, freeing himself. I don't think Dean had thought to bring a key with him, so I'm guessing John never took him to any magic shows.

"Sam!" Dean shouted again, and I could feel his body tense as Sam finally responded.

"D-Dea . . . ." The sound of his voice was garbled as he sputtered and struggled to draw in a ragged breath.

Giving credit where credit is due, I was reluctantly impressed with Sam. Over and over again, he dropped down to the bottom of the tank and forcefully pushed himself upward, breaking the surface long enough to take a quick breath before he was dragged under once more. He wanted to live, and never once doubted that Dean would save him.

"I'm gonna get you out of there, Sammy. You just hold on for me." Heaving the heavy pipe aside, Dean frantically groped for another means to rescue his brother. Without a momentary pause, he sprinted back to the wall, and felt around until his hand landed on the edge of the table. Hastily pulling it away from the wall, he shoved it back across the room.

Tension mounting, my stomach churned as I leapt to my feet. Eyes glued to the screen, I stared in utter amazement as he scrambled up onto the table, undid his belt and slipped it through the loops of his pants. With the leather belt in hand, he pulled himself up onto the ledge and dove inside the tank.

"Oh, nice move, Dean." I nodded my approval when I saw him using the metal prong on his belt to jimmy open the first of the four locks holding Sam prisoner.

Within a matter of seconds, he'd managed to free Sam's other leg, and gripping a hold of both of them, he pushed his little brother upward. Sam's head crested the surface of the water, and I heard him choking and coughing as he gasped for breath.

Dean held out for as long as he could, then reluctantly let go of Sam's legs and surfaced for a moment to catch a breath before diving back under. Almost out of air, Sam squirmed and thrashed against Dean as he struggled to open the third lock.

Mesmerized, my eyes flitted back and forth between the brothers, watching and waiting for one of them to stop fighting, but neither seemed inclined to give in at the moment. A smile played across my lips as I imagined all the possibilities if they both survived. I hadn't expected it - hoped for it, but I'd been certain Sam would drown, and had contented myself in the knowledge that I would still have Dean.

One hand now free, Sam twisted around and fearfully yanked on the handcuff as Dean tried to jimmy it open. Gripping hold of Sam's hand, Dean pried it free, and pushed it away before he quickly set to unlocking the last restraint. He was incredible to watch while under pressure, and I actually found myself cheering him on. Of course I'd still kill him - kill them both, but that didn't mean I couldn't be impressed by his skills.

Freeing Sam from the last shackle, Dean wrapped an arm around his brother's waist, and pulled him upward. As they breeched the surface, water spilled over the sides of the tank, splattering on the table and ground. Not wanting to miss a single moment of Sam's rescue, I hated to leave the monitor, but I needed to control the situation. Once Dean was certain Sam was all right, his first thoughts would be to escape. Oh, he would've liked to stick around to make me suffer for what I'd done to them so far, but with his compromised eyesight and Sam's weakened condition, there was no way in hell he would risk it. Too bad for him that I had no intention of allowing them to leave.

Luckily for me, Sam has swallowed a helluva lot of water, and undoubtedly wouldn't be moving too quickly. Dean . . . well, he had is own set of problems to deal with. Even if the water had flushed out the poisonous sap in his eyes, it would still be quite a while before his vision returned. Then there was the added complication of finding their way through the maze of tunnels.

A smile twisted on my lips as I looked at the worn brown leather journal laying on the table and a plan began to form in my mind. I crossed the room, opened my grandfather's gun cabinet and selected the perfect weapon. I've never really enjoyed shooting things, not much of a challenge in it for me. Not that I wouldn't, but I'd like to think Dean would expect better of me. Although as a hunter, I'm fairly sure he would be impressed with my abilities as I can easily drop a moving target from more than four hundred meters out with a single shot - a little skill I honed while serving in the military as a rifle sniper.

After loading my gun, I slipped out into the dimly lit corridor. By now I figured Dean would've helped Sam out of the tank, and if I timed it correctly they would be in the tunnels when I reached them. I slowed my pace to carefully measured steps. As I stealthily crept forward, keeping to the shadows, I practiced taking deep breaths and then deflating my lungs. Always shoot your target without breathing, lungs deflated, and preferably between heartbeats - a bit of useful information that was drilled into my head by my commanding officer.

Dean was close, I could feel it in my gut. In my mind I visualized the look of determination I'd seen on his face when he was trying to rescue Sam from drowning. Like myself, he could focus so completely on his objective that I could actually feel the energy radiating from him. In those moments when I wasn't sure he would be able to undo the shackles in time, that same energy nearly engulfed me, and it felt as if I were the one drowning instead of Sam.

Ahead, I could hear the shuffling of feet against the hard-packed earth, and the sound of Dean's low voice sternly warning Sam to keep moving. Even if he couldn't see, he still glanced back over his shoulder repeatedly out of habit. I wondered if he sensed my presence as I had sensed his even before I'd caught sight of him.

He hunched low, arm braced around Sam's back, fearful that because of his eyesight he might lose him. Slightly ahead of him, Sam led the way - an uncomfortable position for them both as the youngest Winchester was used to his older brother taking the lead.

In the dim light, I could barely make out that Sam was shivering as he coughed and wheezed sporadically. Listening closer, I heard water sloshing and squishing out of his sneakers as he tread through the chilled tunnel. The water I'd used to fill the tank was icy cold, and undoubtedly he was freezing, but he didn't complain. I'm sure with John as a father, nearly freezing to death was probably just another everyday occurrence for them.

They moved together as one, something I was certain they had been taught to do, and found it fascinating how when facing the unknown their minds and actions melded into one another's.

If Dean took a misstep, Sam was right there to unobtrusively take up the slack, guiding him back on course. When Sam paused, coughing hard as pain racked his chest, Dean's posture would go rigid, hands clenching while he glanced back over his shoulder toward me. Even if he couldn't see me, he knew I was there, watching him.

He wanted to confront me. Wanted to release his inner Shadow. Wanted revenge not knowing it was a stepping stone to darker things. Things he fought and things he denied within himself.

We were not so different, Dean and I. Whether real or imagined, he liked killing creatures - creatures that at times could be just as human as he was, and underneath all the lies and deceit - all those little games he played to keep Sam safe and protect his father's delusional secrets, he desired to be as free as me. I could give him that . . . give him a taste of what it was like, and then I'd snatch it away from him.

On the move again, they picked up their pace as they undoubtedly heard me behind them. Sure, I could have easily hidden the fact that I was there stalking them, but a lion will only pursue the lamb for so long before its appetite for the kill will win out. As the lion, my mouth watered in anticipation, and as the lambs their guts twisted as they neared a fork in the tunnels.

"One way leads out of here, Dean," I called out to him, and instantly saw him put himself between myself and Sam. "The other's a dead end," I added, raising and leveling my weapon on his back. I didn't feel the need to mention that they had gone completely the wrong way in the first place and would have to turn around and go past me to find the real exit. "So it's really a crap shoot, you guess wrong and Sam'll die because of you. No pressure, just thought you should know."

He spun to face me, and although he appeared deathly calm, he was seething with rage. With a hand, he guided Sam to move backward as he took a step in my direction. Always the protector, always willing to risk his own life to prove himself worthy to John. It really was a wonder that he wasn't already dead.

"You sure you wanna do that?" I asked, racking a bullet into the chamber, and Dean stopped dead in his tracks hearing the sound. "Yeah, that noise just gets you where you live, doesn't it?" I chuckled. "Think it's only fair to warn you I'm a sniper shot." Okay, so I bragged a little, but what fun would it be being really good at something if you couldn't shove that knowledge down someone else's throat. "An' you're way too close to even think of getting away before I pull the trigger." No need to mention that he would be way too close even if I was all the way at the other end of the tunnel and he was running very fast toward the exit.

"If you think you're so damn good, why the hell don't you take me on without the gun?" Dean challenged, clenching his fists as he bravely - or stupidly, depending on how you looked at it - took a few more steps in my direction. "Hell, it seems like the only way you can keep the upper hand is if you drug, blind or point a gun at someone."

"You really want to fight me, Dean?" I could hardly keep the amusement from my tone. I hadn't expected any less from him, and was thrilled that he hadn't disappointed me. "Tell me, did daddy teach you how to kill a man with your bare hands or will I be your first human kill?"

Not surprisingly, Dean flinched at the thought of taking my life. Oh, he would if he had to, but there was no doubt that the idea unsettled him. No, he wouldn't go in for the kill unless I made it impossible for him to do otherwise. He'd much rather beat the hell out of me, and then anonymously turn me over to the authorities with one well-placed phone call to the police.

"My father taught me well enough, you sonuvabitch." he snarled, taking several more steps toward me.

"Oh, I'm sure he did." I nodded in full agreement. "Alright, Dean, we'll do this your way," I added, and after a momentary pause I set the rifle on the ground, and kicked it away from myself and toward him. The gun skittered across the ground and came to rest within a few feet of Dean, and I could just feel how much he wanted to reach out, snatch it off the ground, and blow a hole right through my heart. "Go ahead, Dean, take it," I coaxed, loving the war of emotions that played across his features as he tried to garner the courage to kill me. "I dare you."

"You don't think I'd kill you?"

"Dean, from what I've gathered about you, you're only good at killing things that are already dead . . . not much of a challenge there if you ask me."

"You'd be surprised." Slowly outstretching his hand, he took a tentative step toward the gun. He'd focused in on the sound of it moving across the ground, and even if couldn't see it, he knew it was there.

"Oh, I doubt that, I'm rarely surprised about anything." My eyes flitted to the gun, just out of Dean's reach, and then back to him. Another few steps and he would be there, and there was something burning inside of me that wanted to see if he had the guts to shoot me in cold blood. "Go on, Dean, pick it up an' shoot me . . . hell, I almost killed your little brother . . . would probably kill your father if given the chance, so what the hell are you waiting for?"

Taking several more steps, he moved beyond the gun, kicking it aside as he strode toward me. Oh, he wanted to kill me, there was no doubt in my mind, but he wanted to do it with his hands. I have to admit that impressed me to no end. But Sam, not about to let Dean face me while blinded, quickly moved up behind him and snatched the gun off the ground.

"Not smart, Sammyboy," I uttered as I whipped out the gun hidden in my waistband, aimed and fired at him.

"D-Dea - " Sam stumbled forward, clasped onto Dean's shoulder for a moment before he crumpled to the ground in an unmoving heap.

"Sammy!" Dean instantly spun on his heel, and dropped down beside his little brother.

Brows furrowing, my lips curled into a scowl. Sam had singlehandedly ruined the little power play I had going with Dean. He didn't believe Dean could protect him - didn't think his older brother could beat me. I hated him for that . . . I hated him more than I've ever hated anyone, and that's saying a lot.

"Don't turn your back on me, Dean." He stiffened at the sound of anger in my voice, but still remained with his back to me. Breath lodging in my throat, my heart skipped a beat at his outward defiance. His anger was brilliant - his hatred like the most illicit drug, and like an addict, I knew I would never get enough of it. "I don't wanna shoot you in the back, Dean, so turn around and finish what you started." He hesitated a moment too long, and never noticed the smile returning to my face as I narrowed my sights on his back, and fired my weapon. "Or maybe I do."


	7. Chapter 7

So yeah, it's a short chapter, but it was just one of those ones I wanted desperately to get out of....I believe the next chapter will be completely from John's POV for those who are wondering what he is up to. thanks for reading and for the awesome reviews!! bambers;)

Chapter Seven

There is just something about the scent of smoldering flesh that'll drag a person out of the deepest sleep, and Dean was no different than anyone else in this aspect. Gut wrenching fear was the only way I could think of to describe the look of sheer terror on his face as he pried his eyes open. Tilting his head from side to side, he peered wildly about the room, but I wasn't sure if he saw only blurred shadows or nothing at all.

"S-Sammy?" he managed to choke out, coughing hard as the words left his mouth. His plea for his brother to answer was met with dead silence, and so to fill the void, I laughed.

"Afraid he can't answer you, Dean. I killed him." I moved to his side, and yanked hard on the chains holding his arms above his head. "Burned him actually . . . I'm surprised the screaming didn't wake you sooner."

"You're lying," Dean snarled, glaring at me with such intense hatred my breath caught in my throat.

"Oh, don't worry, I salted him first just like it says to do in John's journal - wouldn't want his spirit coming back to haunt me, now would I?" Flipping open the journal, I leafed through the well-worn pages. I quirked a brow as I studied the eldest Winchester's detailed descriptions of creatures and the means in which to kill them. He may have been completely insane, but he was thorough in his research. "I'm guessing that the salting is not a means of tenderizing him, so I'm figuring it's more along the lines of a cleansing ritual. Is that right?"

"I'm gonna kill you." The chains binding his arms and legs clanked loudly together as he fought to break free of them, but they held firm.

"I'll take that as a yes." An amused smile briefly flitted across my features as I dropped the journal, and cupped hold of his chin, forcing him to look me in the eyes. "I know you can't see me, so I'll just have to tell you that the look on my face isn't one of fear . . . amusement, yes . . . fear of you - never."

"Where's my brother?" His body tensed, fists clenching and I found myself wanting him to hit me.

"Sorry about shooting you in the back," I responded, ignoring his question. "But I bet you're relieved it was only a tranquilizer gun, right?"

"I know you didn't kill him, so tell me where the hell he is, you sick sonuvabitch."

"An' how can you be so sure?" Tilting my head to the side, I studied his face, noting a few tiny scars that I hadn't noticed until now. I'd imagine there were many more of them, etched across his chest and back, and wondered how much pain he had endured in receiving them.

"Because you're sick an' twisted, and you'd want me to watch."

"Don't act like you know me, Dean - I don't like it." Momentarily losing my composure, I turned my back on him, and scooped up the journal off the floor. In those fleeting seconds he was in control - I could feel him invading my mind, soul and gut. For the first time in my life, I felt almost helpless. "I sliced his throat wide open, smashed out his teeth, and then ripped his jawbone right off his face . . . burning him was merely an afterthought on my part."

"I-I don't believe you."

I wanted him to be afraid, and he was. His chains rattled as he consciously fought the mental image I'd just placed in his head. What he had taken from me, I'd given back to him a hundredfold. And for as weird as it seemed to me, what I did to him with my mind scarred him worse than a razor-sharp blade to the chest.

His anxiety grew as I slowly circled around him, and I saw him go rigid as I leaned in closer to whisper into his ear. "Breathe in deep, Dean. Taste his burnt flesh on your teeth, an' then tell me I'm lying."

Swallowing hard, Dean's lips quivered with revulsion as he fought the urge to gag at the rancid scent permeating the bunker. "Th-that's not my brother."

"Do you honestly think I just have random bodies laying around to burn when the need arises." I moved around to face him, and grasped hold of his amulet. "I can tell this means a lot to you . . . Sam must've given it to you, right?" His head jerked forward as I tugged a little harder on the leather strap. "Was it for a special occasion . . . A birthday?" I smirked as he tried to conceal how much he coveted the gift from his little brother behind a deep-set scowl. "No - it was a Christmas present . . . an' you've never taken it off since. Am I right?"

"Le' go of it," he gritted out through clenched teeth, and from the muscle twitch in his right cheek, I'd knew I struck a nerve.

"Ahh . . . I'm right," I gloated, ripping the amulet off of his neck. "So that means I get to keep it as a little reward."

Tugging hard against his restraints, Dean fought to grab it from me, but I hastily took a backward step out of his reach. "Give it back, you bastard!"

"Relax, Dean." I grinned as I tied the strap around my throat. "I'm gonna kill ya, so it's not like you're gonna need it."

At the very least, most people would have shuddered at my matter of fact attitude, but not Dean. He'd steeled himself in the knowledge that his hero - crackpot - father would somehow find him in time, and save not only him but Sam as well. It amazed me how much faith he could have in a man who thought of him only as a line of defense to protect all the unworthy people of the world.

"He's not gonna find you in time . . . and even if he did, do you really think he'll be happy when he finds out that you lived instead of Sammy?" His head tilted downward a fraction of an inch as he undoubtedly recalled his father choosing him to die instead of Sam. "Tell me how it feels to always be everyone else's bitch, Dean. Or better yet, tell me how much it hurts to know that everyone will always come before you in the eyes of your father."

"Keep the damn amulet, just let me see my brother." His glassy green eyes flashed with self-loathing along with what I assumed to be bitter, deep-seeded anger toward John for making him feel as if he were nothing more than a tool in the eldest Winchester's ongoing monster war.

Unsheathing my knife, I slipped back behind him, gripped hold of his hair and yanked his head backward. "Tell me something, Dean," I began as I pressed the blade to his throat. "How does it feel to know that he didn't believe you could protect him?" Leaning in menacingly close, I whispered in his ear. "I'd imagine after all you've done to keep him safe it must hurt like a swift kick to the family jewels, right?"

"You don't know what the hell you're talkin' about."

Dean was silent for a moment, and I could tell he was trying to piece together if I'd killed and burned Sam or someone else. Upon first glance, not too many people would consider him highly intelligent, but I've learned to delve beneath what a person wants you to see about themselves, and Dean didn't fool me for a second. He would figure it out because that was how his mind worked. It was as simple as that, and that impressed the hell out of me.

"It was that missing kid wasn't it . . . the one you made certain I noticed on the news." He wasn't guessing or asking me if I'd done it. He knew.

I smiled at how easy it was to read him - and how easily he could understand me as well. I slid the tip of the blade across the side of his throat, lightly slicing into his skin. Thin ribbons of crimson trailed down his throat, soaking into his already drenched shirt. "Would it interest you if I told you he would've been a murderer someday if I'd allowed him to live?"

"Too bad he didn't kill you," Dean hissed, trying to stay as still as possible as the knife dug a little deeper into his flesh.

"Oh, I'm sure he would've tried if I'd given him the chance, but his eyes gave him away." Pulling my hand away, I moved to stand in front of him again, and gently placed the tip of the blade against the corner of his left eye. "So I carved them out." Blinking, he flinched away from the cold steel. "Aren't Sammy's eyes hazel with just the slightest shading of blue in them?" I paused for a moment, allowing the menacing hint to sink in before adding, "Maybe I should take a closer look just to be sure." With that being said, I spun on my heel and headed for the exit.


	8. Chapter 8

_So as promised, this chapter is entirely from John's POV. Hopefully I managed to do justice to his character. Thanks for reading and for the really great reviews! bambers;)_

_Chapter Eight_

If I hadn't heard Dean's voice on the phone before Charlie took it away from him, I wouldn't have believed my boys had been abducted by the madman. There wasn't the slightest mess in our motel room to indicate that there had been a struggle. Sure, Dean and Sam's beds were rumpled and dirty clothes were haphazardly thrown on the floor near their duffel bags, but that was normal.

After searching the entire room, the only thing I could find missing was my journal, and the only reason I could think of as to why Charlie might've taken it was if he was some sort of creature. It made sense. He'd targeted my sons while I was away. Had picked them out purposely to torture. Had taken my journal as a sort of calling card. He wanted me to know that he was an evil sonuvabitch and we'd somehow pissed him off.

He'd stepped right over the salt lines in front of the door as they were still in place when I barged into the room. That meant whatever he was, he was powerful - powerful and he had my boys. That thought twisted in my gut as I checked for any unusual electrical storm activity in the area leading up until the time they were abducted.

By all the newspaper reports I'd read, there hadn't even been a passing shower recorded within a fifty mile radius over the past eight days. Undaunted, I searched through the pages for any unexplained murders or disappearances occurring in the area over the few weeks and came up with only two possible leads. The first was the brutal slaying of a middle-aged woman who had been found dumped in a ravine. The second was the disappearance of a young college student who had yet to be found.

After thoroughly researching the known details of the woman's death, I discounted her murder as being related to my boys abduction. Maybe it was a mistake on my part. Maybe deep down I chose not to see a connection as I couldn't bear to think of Dean or Sam as another set of murder statistics. They were everything to me. They were my reason for surviving, and I couldn't let myself think even for a moment that I would never see their smiling faces again.

Of course I'd known that their true smiles had become rarer and rarer as time wore on, and most times they used them to hide the pain I'd cause them. But even if they were battle weary, those smiles still belonged to me, and I coveted them as a priest covets the cross.

Dragging a hand through my beard, I returned my attention to the details of the college student's disappearance. There was some speculation as to whether he really was a student, and as I read further, I'd discovered that he'd changed his name and forged his transcripts. He'd used the name Andrew Drake to enroll into school. But after investigators learned that the real Andrew Drake had been reported missing two years prior, they had somehow determined through paper trails that his real name was Alexander Cole.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as I studied his picture closer, and noticed the unsettling look in his eyes. There was a coldness to them that a normal person might not notice in passing, but it was there nonetheless. My gut told me he knew something about my boys abduction. If he didn't take them, he knew who did, and I damn sure intended to find him.

Narrowing my eyes, I tried to imagine his eyes as shining obsidian or fiery yellow, wanting to see him as a demon. I understood demons. God, I wish I didn't, but for the past thirteen years they consumed almost every waken thought I had, and that wasn't even taking into account the nightmares that didn't end just because I'd woken up. Yet for as hard as I tried, he still appeared human to me, and maybe that was the point. I'd become so wrapped up in hunting the ghosts of the past that I'd forgotten that humans could be every bit a vile and depraved as the things I hunted.

The sound of the doorknob rattling drew me from my thoughts, and I peered up in time to see Bobby and Pastor Jim entering the motel room. From their grim expressions, and also from the way they couldn't quite meet my steady gaze, I knew they hadn't discovered any useful information. My boys were missing - stolen from me, and no one knew anything. No one cared.

A tight knot twisted hard in my throat as I fought back the tears that threatened to drag me under. I needed to be strong. I needed to be the same man who'd vowed revenge against the Yellow-Eyed sonuvabitch who'd stolen my wife away from me. Revenge was my safe harbor. It was the strength I delved into when I didn't think I could stand one more beating or broken bone. And it was the thing that had kept my boys safe up until now.

"Lemme guess, no one saw anything," I snapped when neither of them spoke, and watched as they both lowered their heads. "That sonuvabitch just walked out of here with both my boys, an' not one damn person can recall a single thing that might have seemed suspicious?"

"There was the waitress from across the street," Bobby spoke up, but I could tell by the frustration in his gruff tone that whatever she remembered wasn't going to be of much help. "She said the boys were  
in there yesterday for lunch, and also mentioned that Dean had talked to some man while Sam was playing video games."

"Did she say what he looked like?"

"She said he might've had dark hair," Pastor Jim interjected when Bobby remained silent. "Or it could've been more of a dirty blond in color."

"Did he leave with them?" I asked as I lowered my sights to look at the duffel containing some of our weapons. As I waited for an answer, I mentally ticked off every item in our arsenal, cataloging them as to what they would and would not kill. I wasn't the same man who'd lost Mary to the demon. I was prepared now, and the thing that took my sons from me would pay for whatever he did to them.

"He left first." Pulling out a chair at the table, Bobby took a seat and scrubbed a hand through his beard. "An' I asked if Dean seemed upset or acted strange after he'd gone, and she said no."

"That doesn't mean he didn't take them."

"I never said it did."

Anger and frustration mounting to an unbearable level, I leapt to my feet, and set to pacing the expanse of the room. We only had about thirty-six hours left to find Dean and Sam before it was too late, and all we knew for certain was that Charlie had taken them to a bunker somewhere.

My hands clenched into tight fists as my thoughts circled back to Alexander. He had gone missing shortly before my boys had disappeared. One thing I've learned over time is never to believe in pure coincidences. Things are always connected somehow. Maybe Charlie was really Alexander Cole or maybe Charlie had taken the college student as well, but one way or another the two disappearances were related.

"Jim, can you find aerial views of all outlying areas within a hundred-fifty mile radius?" I asked as I calculated how much distance we could realistically cover within the amount of time we had left. When I noticed him nod in response, I added, "Also, Dean mentioned a bunker so we're gonna need any information you can dig up on abandon military facilities or underground shelters built by civilians."

"Alright, I'll see what I can find." Knowing we were running out of time, Jim turned and headed back out the door.

"While he's doing that what are we gonna be doing?" Bobby asked, anxiously drumming his fingertips on the table. He shifted his sights from me to the door, an obvious indication that he wanted to be doing something to find Sam and Dean instead of sitting around waiting for Jim to return. "We could canvas the area again and talk to more people. Someone had to have seen a car or something."

"No, we don't have time for that." I'd already determined that our best chance to save my boys was to find out what the police had found out about Alexander's disappearance, and then use their information to locate Charlie. "I'm gonna go to the police station, and I want you to head over to the University to find out any information you can on a kid named Andrew Drake. He went missing shortly before Sam and Dean, an' I just have a gut feeling about it."

"Alright." Bobby got to his feet, strode to the door and opened it, but hesitated before stepping outside. "Have you heard back from Missouri yet?"

"Not yet, but she said it might take some time."

"Well, time's the one thing we're sorely lacking in, so let's hope your gut feeling is right." Without another word he strode out the door and headed to his car.

XxXxXxXxXxX

I've never been a huge fan of three piece suits, but for as much as I dislike them, I hate cocky, hard-nosed law officials even more. They see someone like me, dressed in flannel and jeans and just figure I've done something wrong and feel the need to harass the hell out of me. But it's damn amazing how quickly they change their tune when I'm dressed in a suit and flashing a badge of my own.

To walk straight into a police station filled with armed officers probably doesn't take as much nerve as going up against your average werewolf or Wendigo, but it does present its own special set of problems. There's always a cover story and a forged badge, and then there's always that one guy who's a smart ass. He's the one who knows for some damn reason that you're not who you say you are, but damned if he can prove it, so he gets his rocks off giving you a hard time. Lucky for me FBI trumps local donut stuffing law enforcement any day of the week.

I've learned over time that the key to pulling off this sort of scam is to keep direct eye contact with whomever I'm speaking to. It proves to them that I'm not afraid, deserve to be there, and would probably kick their asses if they questioned my authority. Yet even with all the confidence in the world, some times things still go wrong, like oh say another FBI agent working the case for instance.

The moment I flashed my badge and asked about Alexander Cole, the officer at the front desk directed me to a back office to speak with another agent from the bureau. As soon as I'd entered the office, a dark-haired man stood from his seat at a cluttered desk and extended a hand to me.

"Thomas Porter, Washington Bureau," he said in a soft spoken manner as I shook his hand, and then he gestured for me to take a seat. "An' you would be?"

"John McClane."

"Well, yippie-ki-yay, John." He chuckled as I grimaced, and for some damn reason it felt as if he truly enjoyed my discomfort. This would definitely be the last time I let Dean chose the name I used on one of my fake badges.

"Yeah, that'd probably be really funny if I hadn't heard it like a million times since the movie came out."

"So you're here about Alexander Cole." Thomas took a seat and began shuffling through the papers and photos littering the desk, and I was certain he wanted me to see the gruesome murder scene pictures as he lingered overlong on studying them. "What branch did you say you were from again?" he asked, glancing up at me, scrutinizing my every movement with his dark brown eyes.

"I didn't say." I met and held his intent stare, not about to be the first one to look away. "I work out of New York," I added, recalling that Alexander had lived there with his parents before he assumed Andrew Drake's name.

"So what angle are you working, Johnny?" He broke eye contact to glance down at a photo of a person who had been burned beyond recognition. "You think he murdered Andrew, took over his identity then just skipped town to assume another identity? Or do you think he was murdered."

"The name's John - and I'm here investigating this case as I feel it relates to the disappearance of two other young boys."

Thomas' intense eyes sparked with sudden curiosity. His hand lingered as he trailed it over the picture of the grotesquely burn person, and it almost seemed as if he were lovingly caressing it. "Afraid you have me at a slight disadvantage, John, as I only know of one missing person in the area."

The hairs on the nape of my neck stood on end as he spoke my name. There was a certain familiarity in his tone that set me on edge, but I imagine that was the way he wanted me to feel. "A friend contacted me when his two sons went missing a day ago. Their names are Dean and Sam." Reaching into my pocket, I fished out two recent photos of my sons and handed them to him. "Their father wanted to keep it out of the news."

"Sure he didn't kill them?" Thomas asked as he studied both pictures at length. "What with the secrecy it does tend to make a man wonder," he added as he snatched a photo of Alexander off his desk to compare him to my boys. "And from what I can tell, there's no striking similarities between the three of them."

"He'd never hurt his kids," I uttered, keeping a forced evenness to my tone. My fists clenched firmly beneath my folded arms. If there was ever a man I wanted to pummel just to wipe the smug look from their face it would be Agent Porter. "He loves those boys more than anything, an' if I don't find them alive an' well, there's no telling what he'll do to the man responsible."

As Thomas eyed me for several seconds, he cast aside the pictures, and laid fold arms against the desk top. "Here's the thing, _John_," he placed emphasis on my name, further grating on my already taut nerves, "My entire job for the bureau involves the criminal profiling of serial killers, rapists and arsonists - so to me when you say he's not the type, it raises a whole helluva lot of red flags."

"How so?" I gritted out, narrowing my eyes on him. My hands trembled with the need to slam them into his cocksure face, but pulling on reserves I didn't know I'd even possessed, I remained seated.

"There are always things people don't want you to see about themselves, so they _create_," he raised his hands and made hanging quotes around the word, "an image that they want people to perceive as the real them."

"I'm telling you that he didn't kill his kids."

"Maybe so." Thomas shrugged, clearly doubting my word on the matter. "But let's just say as a hypothetical situation that I am a serial killer. I wouldn't want you to know about it, right?" He hesitated for a moment, grinning as if he'd just given me a very valuable piece of information that had somehow managed to go straight over my head. "I wouldn't go around advertising it. I'd live my life as normal as any other person. I'd have a decent job, nothing too flashy as I wouldn't want to somehow end up in the spotlight. I'd be intelligent, but never let on just how smart I am as I might give myself away." He shuffled through the photos on his desk, and held up the picture of the burned man for me to see. "To you I'd appear as a quiet, unassuming individual, but there in lies the real kicker. For in truth I'm a cold-blooded killer who really gets off on hearing young men scream as I torture the hell out of them. It excites me like nothing else can."

Gut clenching painfully, I somehow managed to utter, "And say you were this cold-blooded killer, where would you take these boys to kill them?"

"Well, if I was, and again this is only hypothetical, I'd probably take them somewhere I was certain no one would ever find them until I wanted them found. Because there'd be no fun in it if someone couldn't admire my handiwork."

"So in some sick, twisted sort of way, you'd want someone to catch you?"

"Maybe not catch, but covet . . . yes, I'd want someone to covet my work. Obsession is just another form of flattery, John."

"And of course this is all just hypothetical, right, Thomas?" Eyes narrowing, I met and held his gaze, waiting to see him flinch or look away.

"I'm afraid I've set you ill at ease." He grinned, keeping his eyes directly on me - challenging me to put my suspicions to the forefront. "You see, I spend a lot of time studying the criminal mind, and oftentimes forget that people such as yourself only observe them from afar. You only see what they want you to see . . . the aftermath of their brutality, but I see the genius behind the madness."

"Almost like you're obsessed?"

"No, clearly not obsessed or I wouldn't have helped to put so many men behind bars, but I am intrigued. They actually dare you to play with their madness, and I find that incredibly fascinating."

"For the sake of argument, what if someone like this did take my - my friend's boys . . . why them? Out of all the people in the world, what would've set them apart from everyone else?"

Thomas dropped the picture he was holding, and picked up the picture of my sons again. I inwardly cringed as he stared at them, but he gave no outward signs of recognition of either of them. "Just a guess, but I'd have to say that something about them intrigued him."

"So if he took them, he'd probably studied them first - learning about them . . . is that what you're saying?"

He gave a subtle nod as he handed me back the pictures. "He'd want to know enough about them to know where they were the most vulnerable . . . but as I said before, I'd look more closely at the father if I were you, John. If he's hiding the fact that his kids are missing, it really makes me wonder what else he's hiding."

"One more question," I said as he lowered his head to resume studying his caseload.

"Certainly." He glanced back up me, and grinned.

"If you were a sick, sonuvabitch who got off on killing kids, would you think some old abandon bunker would be the best place to keep them while you got your rocks off?" For some reason I got the feeling he wanted me to know it was him, and I'd hoped to unnerve him, but his grin never faltered.

"Well, that would depend, John." He picked up a glass sitting at the edge of the desk and took a long, slow sip of water before replacing it in the exact spot he'd taken it from. "It would have to well out of the way, and probably not on any maps to afford the needed privacy. But, yes . . . that would be a good location provided those circumstances. Of course some serial killers just bring their victims right on home with them . . . bury 'em in the back yard . . . cut 'em up an' eat them for dinner - you get the picture. Does that answer your question?"

"Yeah, it does." I got to my feet to leave, but found that my legs were trembling so badly I had to grip hold of the edge of the desk to steady myself. Everything in my gut told me Thomas had my sons, and he was flaunting it in my face, but if I confronted him now, I might never find them. My other gut-wrenching fear was that he wasn't working alone. If he was here with me, there was a very real possibility that someone else was watching my boys for him. For the moment, I needed him to think he had outsmarted me, but I would follow him, and the moment I knew my boys were safe - I'd make him well aware of what Winchester justice truly meant. "Thank you for your time."

"Not a problem. If there's anything else I can do for you, just give me a call." Fishing through his pocket, he yanked out a card and handed it to me. "My number's on there in case you need it."

"Thanks." I glanced at the card and read the name Doctor Thomas C. Porter on it, and playing on a hunch asked, "What does the C stand for?"

"Charles." He grinned, eyes alighting with derisive pleasure. "After my father."

"Huh, that's exactly what I thought it would be - I'll be seein' you around." Without another word, I turned on my heel and stormed from the office.


	9. Chapter 9

_So, back to Charlie's POV, crazy POV that it is...thanks for reading and for all the awesome reviews!! bambers;)_

_Chapter Nine_

When I was about seven or eight years old, my grandfather told me something I've never forgotten. He said that a man is never so dangerous as when he feels his family is in danger. I'd imagined John would've whole-heartedly agree with him. Although, I'm also fairly certain John would've seen him as something he needed to hunt as well. But right from the start, I've believed John was mentally unstable so that would only stand to reason.

John's pure, raw anger was nothing short of exhilarating, and I found myself wishing I'd prolonged our first encounter. The killer instinct was there within him, I could sense it in every carefully chosen word he'd spoken, and how he couldn't drag his eyes away from me. If intimidation were a sport, he would've won hands down against a lesser opponent. Too bad for him that I don't cower so easily.

First impressions are an amazing thing. They can tell you a helluva lot about a person, and just from John's handshake I could tell he was the real deal. A true force to be reckoned with. His grip was firm, almost to the point of being a subtle challenge.

His dark eyes were unrelenting, but beneath his hardened resolve, I caught sight of a hidden vulnerability within their depths when he spoke of his boys. He thought of this as a weakness, probably his only one, and went to great lengths to distance himself from the emotions attached to loving his sons too much.

Much like Dean, he'd perfected the art of lying. His voice never wavered as he looked me dead in the eyes and told me the fictitious story about Dean and Sam being some other man's children.

The only thing I'd found utterly disappointing about him was when he'd given into his weaker emotions and gripped hold of my desk as he stood to leave. It belied every moment we'd spent together up until that point, and if it hadn't been for his brilliant recovery in asking what my middle name was, I would've sorely regretted the entire encounter.

Now after our encounter, I'm not so stupid as to believe that John won't try to follow me, nor is he stupid enough to think I'll just walk out the front door either. So we're pretty much at a standoff until one of decides to make our move.

I've never considered myself the kind of guy who runs away from a challenge, and I'm pretty sure John might lose a bit of respect for me if I didn't acknowledge his presence outside. So why the hell not confront him.

As I could tell that John appreciated all my crime scene photos, I gathered them together and stuffed them into my briefcase, stood and headed for the door. I believe he would have been especially impressed if he'd known that the grisly burned victim in the picture I kept showing him was Alexander, but I can't give away all my secrets as I don't believe in giving the punchline to any good joke away before it's time.

After a quick word with the officer in charge, I stepped outside, and it took me only a few minutes to spot his shiny black Impala - not the best car to use when trying to remain inconspicuous - it's like flashing a bright neon sign saying 'hey, look at me I'm a dumbass who thinks I'm being so damn clever'. He was ducked low in his seat, dark eyes directly on me as I stood at the front entrance, and if he was surprised by my boldness at not sneaking out the back way, to his credit, his facial expression never faltered.

With a nod in his direction, I stepped off the stairs, and crossed the road, holding up my hand as I maneuvered through oncoming traffic. His eyes narrowed on me now, lips twitching as his forehead furrowed into a deep scowl. Nope, he definitely hadn't expected me to confront him, and oh, hell yeah, he was pissed.

With a smile, I rapped on his window, and within a moment, he rolled it down. "Something wrong with your car, John?" I asked, feigning my most sincere look of empathy. "I know how these old cars are always just one last ride away from being scrap metal."

"Nothing's wrong with my damn car," John snapped, face flushing with anger.

"So, you're staking out the police station then?" I chuckled, understanding how close he was to flinging open his car door to kill me on the spot. Again, even though his grip tightened around the steering wheel in response to my taunts, I was reluctantly impressed with how well he could control himself. Of course, he realized we were at a standoff of sorts, but he was the one with the proverbially gun pointed at his head while my finger was held firmly on the trigger. "Here's a hint for ya, the criminals in there have already been caught, so you're wasting your time."

"I was just sitting here wondering if maybe you could help me find Sam and Dean," John uttered with a forced evenness, belied only by the slight tremor in his right cheek.

"Not sure how I could be of any help, John." I loved saying his name. It set him completely on edge, and I swear if his grip tightened any more around the steering wheel, he'd probably end up tearing it off. "I still believe their father probably killed them, and think you're wasting time searching for ghosts." I just had to throw the ghost reference in there as he'd certainly understand that I had indeed been watching them and knew about his crazed delusions. "Sometimes monsters are right in our midst, an' we're just too blind to see them until it's too late. So, I guess that's why the world's lucky to have men like you and I here to protect people from harm."

John's Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed down how much I actually knew about him and his sons. "Maybe you're right, but I'd still like to pick your brain a little more, and maybe take a look at your files again."

"Sure thing, John, anything I can do to help." If he wanted my help, who was I to argue with him, and why should I deny myself of his entertaining company. "I was just going for a bite to eat, so if you want to tag along, I'd be happy to answer any of your questions."

"Should I follow you?" John asked, accepting my unspoken challenge.

"Why don't I just drive with you?"

He eyed me for a moment, more than likely analyzing my motives - wondering just how lethal I truly was, and praying he could outsmart me. He was clueless.

"That's fine."

As I slid into the passenger's seat, I mentally prepared myself for John's interrogation, which I believed would have more to do with pulverizing my brain rather than picking it for answers about where his boys were. Once he was certain I was trapped inside with him, he revved the engine, hit the accelerator, and peeled out onto the street, leaving a storm of dust and gravel in the car's wake.

"Going a little fast, aren't you, John?" I grinned, tilting my head to glance at the speedometer. "And if I'm not mistaken, the best diners in town are back that way," I added as I looked over my shoulder at the fleeting image of the town. Unsurprisingly, when I turned back the barrel of a .45 was pointed directly at my head.

"Do you normally hide what you do, Charlie?" John responded in a low deadly calm voice, unmatched by the turbulence I saw in his dark, stormy eyes. "Or do you just think you're so damn smart that someone like me could never figure you out?"

"Oh, you're wrong, Johnny," I chuckled, throughly enjoying his little powerplay for my benefit. "Never stupid - out of your mind delusional, maybe, but never stupid."

"Where the hell are my boys?" His finger tensed on the trigger as he gritted out the words, but without knowing where they were, there was no way in hell he was going to kill me - shoot me, maybe, but he was too smart to risk his sons' lives just for a moment of pleasure.

"Last I checked, Sammy was drying out while Dean was just hanging around." The corner of his right eye twitched, and I could sense how much it unnerved him to no end at how unconcerned I appeared at the thought of my own death. "Or was it, Sammy was bleeding really bad while Dean was trying to hold his guts in." I shrugged. "Hmmm . . . I just can't seem remember, John, but either way you'll never find them in time."

"Do you really think I won't kill you, you sick sonuvabitch?" John snarled, slamming on the brakes, and made a hairpin turn onto a dirt road nearly buried beneath an overgrowth of weeds and bramble. Low tree limbs slapped against the metal of the Impala as he barreled down the almost non-existent road.

"Oh, I have no doubt you'd try to kill me, John, but not before you know where your boys are, so I'm sorry if I don't seem all that concerned."

The road came to an abrupt end at a thick green wall of trees and shrubs, and unless John truly believed that if by driving straight through them it might scare me into telling him where his children were, he had to stop. Easing up on the gas, he stepped down hard on the brakes, and came to a grinding halt.

Putting the car in park, he ordered, "Give me your damn gun."

"Whatever you say, John." With a gloating grin, I slipped my hand inside my jacket, yanked the gun out of the holster, and carefully handed it to him. "I'd imagine you don't want to shoot me inside the car, so I'm assuming you want me to get out now, right?"

With his sights trained on me, John cautiously opened his door, and slid out of his seat. "Get out," he hissed, leveling the gun on my chest, and without the slightest hesitation I did as he commanded. "Raise your hands, an' keep 'em where I can see them."

Lifting my hands over my head as he'd requested, I laughed. "Been watching a lot of old western movies lately, Johnny?"

"Enough of them to know that the dumb sonuvabitch like yourself gets blown away in the end, if that's what you mean."

"Insult my sense of humor if you want, but don't you ever insult my intelligence, John," I utter with a mirthful grin, and lifted a brow in amusement as I heard the sound tree branches clashing against mental. "Because you have no idea how much that really pisses me off," I added, nudging my head toward the road behind John, and he swung around just in time to see two black unmarked police cars come into view. "You see, I told them that I had my suspicions that you might be this serial killer I've been tracking, who's become obsessed with me. A guy by the name of Two-finger Charlie who's been really been making a name for himself lately."

"You sonuvabitch!" John growled as he lowered his weapon.

"Don't be so pissed, John," I said, feigning a look of utter relief for my fellow officers' benefit. "Think of it as a compliment. You had me dead to rights, an' if they hadn't shown up when they did, I'm fairly sure you would've killed me, an' hell you would've probably found your boys alive, too."

"I can still kill you right now," John breathed, eyes filled with unadulterated rage. His hand lifted slightly as if he were weighing his options, and I waited breathlessly, wanting to see if he truly had the nerve to shoot me in front of so many witnesses.

"True," I'd admitted, nudging my head toward the four officers who were now exiting their vehicles with weapons drawn, "but then they'd gun you down like you'd gun down a werewolf . . . that is how you kill 'em, right? Silver bullet to the heart . . . I've been studying."

"Sir, throw down your weapon, and raise your hands," the tallest of the four officers shouted to John, leveling his gun on his heart.

"You should do as he says, Charlie," I said, keeping my sights pinned on John, completely fascinated by his growing rage. Although he kept his eyes focused on me, I noticed the slight waver in them as he processed the situation in his mind, trying to determine his course of action. They were keeping him from his boys - they were his enemies, and he was trying to determine if he could somehow disable them all without dying himself in the bloodshed. In that moment, I truly saw him as a worthy adversary. "There's no sense in dying here today when we both know you have something worth living for."

"Sir, we're not gonna ask you again," a shorter scruffy-haired officer hollered, and fired off a warning shot, narrowly missing John's left leg, but he didn't even flinch. "Throw down your damn gun."

"You're caught, Charlie, don't make them kill you." As I spoke, I memorized every line and detail etched into John's face as he glared at me with such intense hatred it nearly stole my breath away.

"Next time I see you, I will kill you." Body tensing, John dropped his gun to the ground.

"Hands in the air," all four officers seemed to shout in unison as they converged on John, and kicking the backs of his knees, they knocked him to the ground. His strength and determination was incredible to watch as he fought against them, damning himself in their eyes. Yet unlike me they didn't realize he was not fighting for himself but the lives of his sons, and so they redoubled their efforts to subdue him.

The scruffy-haired officer yanked out his billy club, and as John momentarily broke free of his captors, he slammed it into his back. John's air left him in rush as he dropped back to his knees. As he struggled to draw in a breath, two officers gripped hold of his arms, yanked them behind his back and cuffed them together. Hauling him to his feet, they dragged him to one of the vehicles, and pushed him into the backseat.

"Are you alright, Agent Porter?" My attention completely on John, I failed to notice the scruffy-haired officer who was now standing beside me.

"I'm fine." I cast a half-hearted smile in his direction, and feigned a sigh of relief. "Think I could have a word in private with him before you take him to the station?"

"You sure you want to?" The younger man lifted a brow, clearly thinking I was out of my mind. "I mean he's obviously out of his mind, an' he has it in for you."

"Unfortunately it's a part of my job to understand the minds of people like Charlie, so there's really no sense in putting it off." Without another word to the pathetic little man, I strode to the car John was sprawled out in, and resting a hand on the hood, I leaned into the vehicle.

"I don't doubt for a moment that you'll find a way to break out of jail, an' get away from these bungling idiots." With a smile, I glanced over my shoulder at my fellow officers of the law, and then refocused my attention on John. "So why don't ya just look me up in the phone book when you get out, so we can take up where we left off." I hesitated for a moment. relishing the look of rage glinting in his eyes, and then add, "I've decide Sam first . . . and then Dean." Without waiting for him to respond, I spun back around, and strode toward the Impala. "He's all yours, boys, I'll be down to the station later to question him further," I called out to the officers as I slid behind the wheel and revved the engine just as John had done earlier. Yeah, it was adding insult to injury stealing John's car while he was forced to watch, but I'd like to think he'd expect no less from me. "I'm just glad I got my car back." Hearing them laughing, I ducked my head and grinned sheepishly. "Cause God only knows how much I hated borrowing my mother's car."


	10. Chapter 10

so it's kinda of a short chapter, but I figured it was a good place to end it. thanks for reading and for all the really great reviews. bambers;)

_Chapter Ten_

When I was younger there use to be a game all the kids played called I Dare You. It went a little something like this - I dare you to run into that store and steal a skin magazine or I dare you to deflate so-and-so's tires. I guess the point of the whole game was to prove who was really a chicken shit and deserved to have the crap beat out of them. I never lost.

Tommy Reno, on the other hand wasn't so fortunate, and lost more than he had to give. All he had to do was dart across four lanes of rush hour traffic - a real bitch in my home town - and make it safely to the other side. He didn't want to . . . the fear in his eyes as he reluctantly accepted my challenge still remains a constant in my memory. Safely hidden perched in the boughs of one of the trees lining the road, I watched in mesmerized awe as his battered body bounced from one car to the next - cars skidding out of control in an effort to avoid having his guts splattered all over their freshly washed vehicles.

He was the first person I'd ever witness dying, and it was exhilarating to watch the horror and gut-wrenching dread on the helpless bystanders' faces. I'd controlled it. I'd made it happen, and no one was ever any the wiser. There is something about having that kind of power that doesn't fade over time. It's a pure kick of adrenaline straight to the pleasure center of the brain, and I'm certain John feels the same way when he kills one of his imaginary monsters.

Too bad for him that this time he's been sorely outmatched.

"Hey there, Sammyboy." Leaning over the large wooden table I had him chained to, I playfully tussled his matted hair. "So you wanna play a game?"

"Where's my brother?" The chains around Sam's wrists and ankles rattled and clanked together as he twisted and writhed against them, desperately trying to break free, but they held firm. "I swear if you've hurt him, I'll - "

"You'll what, little boy?" Gripping hold of his neck, I squeezed my fingertips into the columns at the sides of his throat, digging my nails into his flesh. "Kick me in the shins . . . run crying to your daddy?" I threw back my head and laughed as he squirmed and gasped for air. "You'll do nothing, because that's what you do. You just sit there and whine and complain because your life's so damn unfair - your breathing annoys me . . . just looking at you makes me wanna smash your face in with a clawed hammer - So, I'd shut the hell up if I were you, an' try to make yourself as small as possible so I might forget about your existence."

"When my dad finds you he's gonna rip you apart," Sam snarled through gritted teeth, trying his damnedest to keep the tremor out of his voice, but the fine sheen of sweat covering his brow spoke in volumes of how terrified he was at the moment.

"Did I somehow make myself unclear or do you just need some sense knocked into your thick skull?" Twining my fingers through his thick, shaggy hair, I yanked his head forward, and slammed it down hard against the hardwood table. His eyes squeezed shut, tears soaking his dark lashes as I jerked his head forward again and smashed it down even harder. "So, do you have anything else you want to say about your father finding you or have I successfully smacked the words right out of your damn mouth?"

Sam blinked hard in an effort to focus his sights on me, but couldn't quite manage keeping his sluggish eyelids open for more than a few seconds at a time. His lips quivered as his tongue darted out to moisten them, and then he mumbled, "He's gonna get y-you . . . an' if h-he doesn't Dean will."

"Dean? Really?" I threw back my head and laughed, the rich, chilling sound of it echoing through the expansive room. "If I'm not mistaken, isn't he the one who got you into this mess in the first place. He almost let you drown while he bumbled around groping at walls. You're here with me, and he's nowhere to be found." I made a sweeping motion with my hand around the dimly lit bunker to prove my point. "No, he won't be your hero in tarnished armor, Sammyboy - he'll be your executioner."

"You don't know my brother, you sonuvabitch," Sam breathed contemptuously, his chains rattling loudly as he fought to break free.

"I think I know him fairly well," I said, giving him a thoughtful look as I mulled over what he'd just said. "But maybe you're right." Shrugging unconcernedly, I further added, "Maybe we should put your unwavering faith in him to the test? What do you say? My intelligence against Dean's lack there of . . . winner takes all?"

Sam swallowed convulsively, eyes widening as he began to tremble in earnest. "Wh-what are you gonna do to him?"

"It's not what I'm gonna do to him, Sammy . . . it's what you're gonna do to him." Lifting a brow, I studied how my words effected him, and wasn't disappointed when I saw his face contort in fear. It was the same look I'd seen on Tommy Reno's face the moment he realized he wasn't going to make it across the street, and foolishly glanced back over his shoulder at me, and just as I had laughed then, I did so now as well. "See, the three of us are gonna play a little game, and I'm bettin' all my money on Dean to lose."

"You bastard, you leave my brother alone - you hear me . . . leave him the hell alone." Sam twisted, squirming and coiling his body against his restraints, but did little more than wear himself out.

"I can't. You challenged me, and what kind of wussy-assed coward would I be if I didn't accept?" Reaching into my pocket, I yanked out the keys to his restraints, and unlocked the ones around his ankles. The moment his legs were freed, he kicked and thrashed violently, and luckily I backed away just before he struck me in the stomach. Within a heartbeat, I'd removed the knife sheathed at my side, and pressed it against his neck. "If you had kicked me, I would have gutted you like a fish." Turning the tip of the blade to dig the sharpened point into the soft flesh at the hollow of his throat, I trailed it down the length of his chest to his abdomen. "Tell me, Sammy, how long do you really think you can hold your guts in before there's more of you splattered on the ground than inside your body?"

Sam instantly stilled as the tip of the blade dug into his belly, cutting through the thin fabric of his  
t-shirt. If he honestly thought he could've stopped breathing at this point and still somehow survive, I'm pretty sure he would have held off on doing that as well.

Pulling the knife away, I leaned in, and whispered into his ear, "That's it, Sammy, play dead for me - it'll be good practice for when it's the real thing." Eyes pressed tightly closed, tears slipped down the sides of his cheeks to dampen his hair. His teeth clenched hard over his lower lip in a vain attempt to muffle the pitiful sounds of his crying. Shuddering, he fought to hold himself as still as possible as I calmly unlocked the two remaining handcuffs.

"Get up," I hissed in his ear, then pulled away from him, fisted my hand through his hair, and yanked him off the table. His knees buckled the moment his feet hit the floor, and had it not been for the firm hold I had on his hair, he would have crumbled to the ground in a pitiful heap.

My hand slipped free of its hold on him, and he dropped to the ground beside me. Crouching alongside him, I lightly placed the tip of my blade at the back of his throat. "You know, you remind me a lot of this boy I use to know, Sammy," I began in a placating manner, tracing a path down the length his spine with the blade. "He was always trying to act as if he knew all the answers, you know the type . . . well, you are the type, so I guess you can figure how much that bugged the crap out of everyone else, right?" When he failed to respond to my direct question, I dug the tip of the knife into the small of his back, eliciting another cry of pain from him. "I asked you a question, and would find it highly rude if you didn't answer. So tell me," I dug a little deeper, his back arching as cold steel sliced through his flesh, "do you realize that people hate you because you're smarter than them?"

"I-I'm not - "

"Sure you are, Sammy," I chuckled, and placing a hand on his shoulder, I leaned in and whispered in his ear, "Do you wanna know what happened to that boy?" Muffling his cries, he slowly shook his head. "No . . . well, I'm gonna tell you anyway. That boy grew up, and decided that if you don't get your ass up now, he's gonna kill you where you sit, and then he's gonna torture your brother in ways you can't even begin to imagine. Sounds like a nice guy, right?"

"I'm getting' up, jus' l-leave my brother alone," he stammered, and bracing his hands against the ground, he pushed himself into a standing position.

As I made to follow, his arm suddenly jerked forward, and just as abruptly swung back, elbowing me hard in the mouth and knocking me backward off my feet. Without hesitation or a backward glance, he raced toward the door, flung it open and tore out of the room.

Glaring at his retreating form, I ran the tip of my tongue along the cut in lower lip, tasted blood, and turned my head to the side and spit it out. "You little sonuvabitch," I muttered under my breath as I swiped the back of my hand across the trickle of blood slipping down my chin. "You wanna play games with me, fine. Let's play a game then."


	11. Chapter 11

_Thanks for reading and for the great reviews. As with all Charlie stories, I should warn that things are gonna get a little dark. bambers;)_

Chapter Eleven

I've always heard that an animal with it's leg caught in the jaws of a steel trap, will chew off its own limb to escape, not sure if that's true, but if it is, Sam's definitely not as smart as you're average stupid animal. Escape was not an option for him if it meant leaving Dean behind, and there in lies the sheer magnitude of his stupidity.

I'd always prided myself on the fact that I don't get mad about the little things, but I'd be lying if I didn't say that it really pissed me off having his elbow planted into my face. Like a squirmy little parasite, he'd wormed his way beneath my skin. Bothersome. And like all annoying little creatures, he needed to be crushed.

A slow smile slid across my face, twisting at my lips at the thought of the maze of tunnels that ran beneath my grandfather's property. The nit-gritty fun in his momentary escape was that in the dark he could very easily get lost for hours while searching for his brother. Hours that I could spend torturing Dean. With that thought in mind, I strode to the fuse box, and flipped off all the corridor lights, casting Sam into total darkness.

Confidently, I slipped through the open door, and sauntered the endless chasm of darkness. Unlike Sam, whom I could hear stumbling and muttering curse words as he traveled, I had intimate knowledge of every inch of the bunker and easily maneuvered around obstacles in my path. One hundred and five steps, give or take a few depending on my stride, turn right. Thirty-two more, hang a quick left. Fifty-seven more paces, sidestep deep pit once covered over by thick wooden plank, now left wide open. A hundred seventy-two more steps, turn left into the room where Dean's awaiting me expectantly.

Closing the heavy wooden door behind me, sealing in any traces of light as I wouldn't want to make things too easy for Sam, I slowly circled around Dean. Through glassy, watery eyes, he watched my every movement with a cagey expression plastered to his features. His sweat dampened hair, clung to his forehead, droplets of moisture trickling down the sides of his face and into his eyes. Perspiration stained, dirt smudges trailed his cheeks, similarly matching the blood stain trails soaking his t-shirt.

"Still hanging around, Dean?" I asked, lifting a brow in amusement. "And here you actually had me believing you would've been out of those locks by the time I walked out the door." Hesitating momentarily, I gripped hold of the chains and yanked hard on them. His feet swayed beneath him as the pulley system attached to the chains clattered to life, lifting him off the ground. His biceps bunched and strained, protesting the brunt of his full weight on them. The chains around his ankles pulled taut as he dug the tips of his heels into the ground in an attempt to alleviate some of the stress on his straining muscles. "Guess I gave you more credit than you deserve."

"Wasn't just hangin' around," Dean gritted out through clenched teeth, lips curling into a menacing scowl. "I was making plans on how to gut you the moment I was free."

"Careful, Dean, you're beginning to sound an awful lot like me," I chuckled, reveling in his unadulterated anger. "Next thing you know, you'll be sticking your blade into some guy's throat just so you can know what it feels like to be me for a split moment in time."

Through lowered lashes, I studied him as I continued to circle, appraising him from every possible angle. Those intense green eyes of his followed my every movement, sizing me up as well. Our purposeful thoughts were similar - his to kill me - mine, to determine in what ways to harm him the most, bringing him to the brink of his own sanity . . . to make him a shadowy ghost of what I am. It was only then that I would kill him.

"As intended, we are the faintly murmured whisper that goes unnoticed by most - slipping in and out of the shadows to accomplish our goals." My voice was soft and low as I leaned in and brushed my cheek against his, purposely invading his personal space. He flinched and shied away from me. "And as such, the unnoticed can be anything they want to be, and still go unseen by the unsuspecting fools who think themselves important until a knife slices through their intestines."

Pinning me with a hateful glare, he hissed, "I'm nothing like you," to which I threw back my head and laughed heartily.

"Our fathers - yours and mine - are much alike." Narrowing my sights on him, I frown disapprovingly as I watched the subtle movement of his eyes, flicking up and off to the left as he recalled some memory of John that I was not privy to. "We're both great disappointments to our fathers - but how could we be otherwise?" He opened his mouth to argue - to defend John, but I clamped my hand down hard against his mouth, squeezing my fingertips into his cheeks to muffle his words. "It's called a God complex, Dean . . . they're right, and we're always wrong. And so you make yourself small - smaller than the most insignificant whisper . . . Do what they say - Do what they say - Do what they say. But all the while thinking. Because in here," with my free hand, I jabbed at his temple and then my own, "you're the god . . . you're the one who controls what happens. Who lives - Who dies."

His eyes briefly shifted upward to the right. He was thinking now - maybe planning or perhaps preparing a lie for my benefit. For whatever reason, he felt the need to protect John, so I guessed it was the latter of the two. "What I'm wondering is what you did to earn his distrust?" Shoulders slumping slightly, he lowered his sights for a fraction of a second, then met and held my steady gaze. "Is it that you enjoy killing your fictitious creatures a little too much for his liking? It's always fun playing at being a killer until someone actually starts enjoying the game a little more than they're suppose to."

With a malicious grin, I shook my head. "No, that's not it. It had something to do with little Sammy, didn't it?" I peeled my fingers away from his lips, daring him to deny it, but he remained stonily silent. "From what I know of John, Sam means everything to him so I'm guessing you somehow left him unprotected. Daddy found out, and from that moment onward he never looked at you in quite the same light."

"You don't know me, you sonuvabitch, so don't pretend like you do." Lips quivering, Dean's tone was thick, choked with emotion, and I was certain I'd struck a very raw nerve.

"Of course you're right." I conceded with a nod. "But I bet I can make you tell me exactly what you did. What do you think, Dean? Do you think I can get you to spill your guts?"

Wrapping his hands around the chains above his shackles, Dean pulled himself upward, alleviating some of the strain on his shoulders, and also making himself tower over me by several inches. The effect would have been more intimidating if he hadn't been locked up, but I gave him credit for working with what he had. "Give it your best shot, asshole."

"Oh, I intend to, Dean, as I really wouldn't want to disappoint you." I spun on my heel, and headed toward the long wooden table at the far end of the room, calling back over my shoulder, "Bet you didn't know this about me, but I'm a huge medieval torture buff, and I kinda think of this as my own special little torture chamber." At the table, I shuffled through various weapons I'd acquired in my travels, and settled on a heavy wooden mallet and two long metal spikes. "The problem is, it's a real bitch finding authentic weapons from that time period, so sometimes I'm forced to improvise a bit." I bobbed my head toward the pulley system above his head, and further added, "Yet I'm certain you'll appreciate all the thought I've put into this."

Dean's head fell backward onto his shoulders as he glanced upward at the intricate workings of the pulleys and sinker weights. Then his head snapped back, and with eyes rounding in question, he fixed his sights on me. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"My version of the rack, Dean." With a gloating smile, I once again nudged my head toward the pulleys. "Actually I believe I've improved on the original design, but you'll be my first test subject, so I guess I'm gonna gage its effectiveness by your screams."

"You're out of your freakin' mind," he shouted hoarsely, toeing at the ground in an effort to move as far away from me as possible, but loosing his footing he ended up swinging back and forth like a clock pendulum.

"One man's definition of crazy is another man's idea of sheer brilliance," I uttered as I strode to him, and gripped hold of his shirt with my free hand, effectively stopping his swaying movement. "So what's it gonna be, Dean? Left foot first or the right one?"

Eyes riveted on the mallet in my hand, he swallowed convulsively. His lower jaw worked up and down, lips quivering as he tried to form the words on them to try and stop me from proceeding, but even if he did manage to utter them, they would fall on deaf ears. A threat is only as good as the follow through, and I couldn't have him believing me weak and ineffective.

"I - I left him alone," he murmured in a harsh raspy whisper, lowering his head so I couldn't see the utter humiliation contorting his features. "I left him alone, an' he almost died."

"Huh," I bit pensively at my lower lip as I thought of the just the right words to slice deeper into his already crumbling ego. "Guess it's no wonder John told me to kill you first as you must be the biggest damn disappointment to him."

Slipping around behind him, I once again invaded his personal space, placing my stomach against his back. His body shuddered in revulsion, shoulders hunching forward as I leaned in and murmured in his ear. "How does it feel to know you're useless in the eyes of your father? Does it twist in your gut like venom, paralyzing you to any other thought but finding the redemption that he'll never give?"

"You don't know what the hell you're talkin' about," he breathed, muscles tensing as I wrapped my arm around him, and raked the tip of the spike around the side of his neck, jabbing it into the hollow of throat. A guttural growl ripped from deep within his throat as crimson droplets seeped from the raised welt, and trickled down his neck to mingle with his sweat. "Go ahead, you sonuvabitch, cause no matter what the hell you do, I'm not gonna let you get inside my head, so you might as well get it over with."

"Is that so?" My hand fell away from his throat, and I circled around to face him, peering square into his eyes, daring him to hold my intent gaze. Tilting my head to the side, I appraised him, my facial expression giving nothing away of how grudgingly impressed I was that he'd somehow managed to rally himself even if I did intend to crush out the fierce determination I saw in his fiery green orbs.

"You think I can't break you, Dean?" I uttered in a menacingly low tone as I continued to hold his gaze. "Think I can't take everything from you?" As I spoke, I consciously willed him to break eye contact, and as if he read my thoughts, he obediently lowered his eyes, bowing his head to look at his boots. "You see, I am already inside your head," I jabbed at his temple, "knockin' around inside there, seein' what makes you tick - finding out what scares the hell out of you . . . all those little things you hide from everyone. You think you hide them so damn well - but not from me. I see them - I see you. You're like a house built on a weak foundation caught in a tornado, Dean. Roof torn away. Walls crumbling. Why rebuild - the house sucked to begin with."

"Really, a house?" He smirked, trying to hide how deeply my words had cut into his soul. "Cause I see myself more as one of those inflatable punching bag things . . . you know the ones where you can punch them until your arms fall off, an' they'll keep popping back up."

"Hmm . . . true enough." Pursing my lips, I gave a curt nod in agreement. "Of course, you'd deflate fast enough if someone stuck a knife through you."

Dean licked at his lips, eyes darting back and forth as he tried to come up with another witty comment, but I'd rattled him. His whole life, he'd been three parts witty comeback, two parts tough guy, and one part wounded soldier, and I successfully sliced open that festering wound.

"What's the matter, Dean? You run out of knee-slapping funny things to say?" Momentarily eying the mallet in my hand, I lifted a brow and grinned in amusement as his eyes were drawn to it as well. "If so, I guess we should get back to my previous question." I crouched beside him, and placing one of the spikes on the ground, I raised the mallet. "Right or left foot first?"


	12. Chapter 12

I know it's been a while, but with hubby out of town for four months now, it's been hard to wrap my head around writing with four kids always in my ear...so, I am very sorry for the delay...thanks for reading and for the awesome reviews they mean the world to me. bambers;)

_Chapter Twelve_

I've always hated party crashers – those irritating little bastards who just tend to annoy the hell out of people because they try to do something to draw the attention toward themselves. Well, Sam's got my full undivided attention now. He's clever, I'll give him that much, finding the main breaker, and tripping the lights just as I was beginning to have some fun with Dean.

If I wasn't so pissed, I might've chuckled when I heard one of the metal spikes skitter across the floor. Obviously Dean was taking full advantage of his brother's diversion, so why burst his happy little bubble by telling him that half the fun of hurting someone is seeing the look in their eyes as they're screaming in pain.

"I can almost hear you smiling, Dean," I commented as I rose to stand beside him. "Of course you're smiling as it's what I'd be doing, but I bet I can make that little grin slip from your face."

"Wasn't actually smiling, was more like planning on how I'm gonna gut you like a fish when I get out of these shackles."

"Well, you're just gonna have to hold that thought then," I chuckled as I strode away from him. "Sammyboy wants to play with electricity, so I figure why not help him out with that."

"Get back here you filthy sonuvabitch!" Dean shouted, chains rattling loudly as he struggled to free himself. "You wanna play then we'll play jus' leave my brother out of it!"

"Glad you realize this is all just a game to me, Dean," I called back over my shoulder, "Nothin' personal except for when someone interrupts a play in action as your little brother just did. It's almost kinda like cheating . . . an' I hate cheaters." I swear I could almost feel his heart skip a few beats as I allowed the words to sink in to his thick skull before further adding, "I'm just a little worried that my anger might get the better of me and it would ruin the game entirely if I had to take out one of the players so soon after we've just begun to play."

It's fun playing with people's emotions, more fun listening to them scream as you walk away to hurt someone they care about. Dean's screams were my anchor, they kept me grounded, allowed me to think and take my time with Sam because for as much as I would've loved to kill him then and there – it would've been to quick. Too unsatisfying.

Once in the blackened corridor, I paused and closed my eyes, craning my neck as I listened for sounds of Sam scurrying around in the darkness searching for Dean. He was smart as most people would've probably turned the lights back on for the safe snuggly feeling it would give them no matter how momentary it might be. The second I detected the sounds of footsteps pounding hard against the ground, I was on the move again, soundlessly circling around him and coming back on the other side. With a light-hearted chuckle, I moved forward, now making just enough noise that I knew he would hear me, and also lead him toward where I kept Dean locked up.

"You'll never find your way out of here in the dark, Sammy," I called out, breaking the silence as I quickened my pursuit of him, forcing him to pick up his pace. "And definitely not while holding up your dying brother – maybe you should just forget about him. Make a break for it – he'll be dead so it's not like he'll ever know you left him behind to save yourself."

I didn't expect him to answer, giving away his exact location - well, not directly anyway, but I was waiting. Listening. A smile crept onto my face as my efforts were realized, and I heard a muffled scream, followed by several cries of pain. "Oh, should have warned you about that pit. Sorry about that, Sammyboy," I chuckled. "Kinda deep, hope you didn't break anything too severely."

Counting off my paces, I came to stand at the edge of the pit, and looked down into the blackened hole. As I squat down, I pulled a silver zippo lighter from my pocket, and ran my thumb along the ridged edges, and within a moment a halo of fiery light filled a small expanse. "Smell that, Sammyboy?" I gestured around where he lay sprawled on the ground clutching hold of his leg. "Gasoline." I smirked as I waved my lighter around for him to get the hint of my intentions. "So you have like five seconds to get to your feet, an' up that ladder before I burn you alive."

I've learned that when people mention a time limit like oh, say five seconds, they never really mean a whole five seconds, or at least I never mean it. I'm more of a four and a half second kinda guy – three if I'm really pissed. "Five." It always amazes me how people will wait for that last second, thinking that there will be time added on just for them – Sam's not a waiter, his father taught him well. "Four." From the muffled cries of pain, and how he kept all his weight to his left side, I figure he broke his right leg. That really sucks for him. "Three." Okay, so I'm actually a three and a half second kinda guy. Throwing the lighter down into the pit, flames flared up, licking at Sam's feet as he scrambled up the rope ladder, scarcely breeching the surface before the whole pit was entirely engulfed. "Two. One." I chuckled, grabbing the scruff of his hair as I hastily rattled off the last two numbers. "You're real fast, Sammy," I added, hauling him to his feet. "I'm impressed, you wouldn't believe how many people haven't made it out of there."

"W-where's Dean?" Sam ground out through his groans and grunts of pain.

"He's waiting for you to save him, Sammy." I shrugged, finding extremely hard to suppress my laughter "You're doing a bang up job by the way – he'll be out of here in no time – maybe not walking out . . . perhaps in a body bag . . . but hey, you tried right? And that has to count for something."


End file.
